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AIR MEN O' WAR 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

BETWEEN THE LINES 
$1.50 net 

ACTION FRONT 
$1.50 net 

DOING THEIR BIT 
$1.2$ net 

GRAPES OF WRATH 
$1.50 net 

FRONT LINES 

$1.50 net 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 



AIR MEN O' WAR 



BY 

BOYD CABLE 

AUTHOR OF "BETWEEN THE LINES," " ACTION FRONT' 
" GRAPES OF WRATH," " FRONT LINES," ETC. 




NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

68 1 Fifth Avenue 



Copyright 1919 
By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 



All Rights Reserved 



><6 



*\ 



V\ 



'■'■ 



Printed in the United States of America 

©CI.A515313 

APR 21 I9!9 



TO ALL 

AIR MEN 0' WAR 

and especially to those who are or have been 

on the western front, whose hospitality and 

friendship i have enjoyed, and to whose help 

and interest these tales are largely due, this 

book is dedicated as a tribute of admiration 

and a token of cherished friendship by 

The Author. 
In the Field, 
September 6th, 1918. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/airmenowarOOcabl 



FOREWORD 

It has been my endeavour throughout these 
tales not only to chronicle some of the wonderful 
work done in the air, but also to show the con- 
nection between it and that of the Armies on 
the ground, the assistance rendered in so many 
ways by the air arm, and its value in a battle 
and in a campaign. I hope that my stories may 
show something of the skill and daring of the 
air men and — what is less well known to the 
public — how much they are doing to save the 
lives and cut down the casualties of the men on 
the ground, and to help our arms to victory. 

Already I have been rebuked for exaggerating 
and making my characters perform impossible 
feats, so I may forewarn the reader that I have 
written nothing here for which I cannot find an 
actual parallel — and in some cases even more 
wonderful — fact. Practically every incident I 
have pieced into my tales has, to my own knowl- 
edge, occurred, and I have left untold many 
which for sheer sensationalism would beat these 
hollow. There are many in the Air Force who 
will recognise incidents and feats, but will not 
recognise the characters I have attached to them, 
because — mainly at the urgent wish of the 
men themselves — I have used entirely fictitious 



viii FOREWORD 

characters and names throughout. Because 
most of the writing was done while the-R.N.A.S. 
and R.F.C. were still in existence I have left this 
as written. 

I ask the indulgence of critical readers amongst 
the air men to any technical errors they may 
discover (knowing how keenly they will look for 
them). I make no pretence to being a flying 
man myself, but because I have done flying 
enough — or rather have been flown, since I am 
not a pilot — to know and appreciate some of 
the dangers and risks and sensations of the work, 
and have lived for over a year in the Squadrons 
at the Front, I cherish the hope that I have 
absorbed enough of the nature and atmosphere 
of the work to present a true picture of the life. 
I shall be very well content if I have been able 
to do this, and, in any slightest degree, make 
plain how vital to success a strong Air Force is. 
I have had experience enough of the line, and 
have gained enough knowledge of the air, to be 
tremendously impressed with the belief, which 
I have tried in this book to pass on and spread, 
that every squadron added, every man trained, 
every single machine put in the air, helps in its 
own measure to bring us to final victory, more 
quickly, and at a less cost in the long and heavy 
"butcher's bill" of the war. 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTER 

I. Silver Wings 
II. Bring Home the 'Bus 

III. A Tender Subject . 

IV. A Good Day 
V. A Rotten Formation 

VI. Quick Work 
VII. The Air Masters 
VIII. "The Attack was Broken" 

IX. If They Knew . 

X. The Fo-fum's Reputation 
XI. Like Gentlemen 
XII. "Air Activity" . 
XIII. The Little Butcher 



PAGE 
1 

14 

32 

46 

57 

68 

80 

94 

107 

120 

131 

146 

164 



X 


CONTENTS 




CHAPTEB 




PAGE 


XIV. 


A Cushy Job . 


178 


XV. 


No Thoroughfare . 


. 185 


XVI. 




196 


XVII. 




. 212 


XVIII. 


The Raid Killers . 


. 232 



AIR MEN O' WAR 



SILVER WINGS 

An old man working in one of the aircraft fac- 
tories once complained that he was not very- 
satisfied with his job. "I've got three boys 
out Front, all in the infantry; and I keep 
thinkin' to myself, Why shouldn't I be doin' 
some sort of munition work that 'ud help my 
own three boys? I don't know a livin' soul 
in the Flyin' Corpse; why should I be workin' 
for them, an' not makin* shells or bombs or 
suthin' that 'ud be helpin' my own three boys?" 

And then somebody told him how he was 
helping his boys, what the work of the air ser- 
vices really meant, how the artillery observation, 
and photographing, and bombing, and directing 
the guns on to hostile batteries and machine-gun 
emplacements, and so on, all worked up to the 
one great end, to making the task easier for 
the infantry, to saving the lives of the men on 
the ground ; and told a few stories of some of the 
ninety and nine ways this help works out. 

The old man was fully satisfied and grateful 
l 



2 SILVER WINGS 

for all that was told him, and declared he'd go 
back to his job with twice the heart — "just 
knowin' I'm doin' mebbe the best work I could, 
and that I'm givin' real help to my own three 
boys." 

Amongst the tales told him the one of "Silver 
Wings" perhaps impressed him most, and that, 
probably because it bore more plainly its own 
meaning of help to the infantry, was more easy 
to make clear than the technicalities of artillery 
observation and the rest. 

And just because it is such a good instance 
of how, after all, the chief or only end and aim 
of the air services is the helping to victory of 
the men on the ground this story of "Silver 
Wings" may be worth the telling here. 

Hard fighting had been in progress for some 
days, and the flying men had been kept desper- 
ately busy from dawn to dark on the various 
branches of their several works, when a "dud 
day" — a day of rain and squalls and hurricane 
winds — gave them a chance to rest. 

Toward afternoon the weather showed signs 
of abating a little, and word came through to 
the Squadron to which "Silver Wings" belonged 
asking if they could get a machine in the air 
and make a short patrol over the line on a 
special reconnaissance. A heavy and un- 
pleasantly gusty wind was still blowing, but a 
pilot and machine were picked for the job and 
presently made the attempt. An anxious 
Squadron Commander and a good many of the 
pilots watched the trial and saw the quick 



SILVER WINGS 3 

result. The machine was brought out with 
mechanics hanging to the wing-tips to steady 
her against the gusts, the engine started and 
given a trial run up; then the pilot eased her 
off, looked round, felt his controls, ran the 
engine up again until his machine was throbbing 
and quivering to the pull of the whirling pro- 
peller, and waved the signal to haul away the 
chocks that blocked his wheels. His machine 
began at once to taxi up into the wind, still 
swaying and swinging dangerously, and then, 
in answer to the pilot's touch, lifted clear of 
the ground, ducked a second, rose again and 
swooped upward. The watching crowd let go 
a breath of relief as she rose clear, but before 
the breath was out it changed to a gasp of 
horror as the machine, caught by some current 
or eddy of wind, swerved, heeled, righted under 
the desperate effort of the pilot, slipped side- 
ways, and with a sudden swoop plunged and 
crashed on the ground. The machine was hope- 
lessly smashed and the pilot was dead when 
they ran and came to him and picked him up. i 

The Squadron Commander would have aban- 
doned or postponed the attempt to get a machine 
up, but the pilot of "Silver Wings" spoke to 
him and urged that he be allowed to have a try. 
"I'm sure I can get her off," he said. "I'll 
take her right over to the far side of the ground 
clear of the currents round the sheds. I know 
what she can do, and I'm certain I can make it." 

So the Major gave a reluctant consent, and 
they all watched breathlessly again while "Silver 



4 SILVER WINGS 

Wings" fought her way along the ground against 
the wind, lifted suddenly, drove level for a 
hundred feet, swooped sickeningly again until 
her wheels were a bare six feet off the ground, 
hoicked up and away. Everyone could see 
by her dips and dives and sudden heelings and 
quick righting how bumpy and gusty the air 
was, and it was not until she was up several 
hundred feet, and came curving round with the 
wet light shining on her silvery planes that the 
watchers on the ground heaved a sigh of relief, 
watched her streak off down wind, and swing 
in a climbing turn that lifted her farther and 
farther into the safety of height. 

"He's all right now," said one. "Only, the 
Lord help him when he comes to land again." 
The hum of the engine droned down to them, 
and the shining wings wheeled again close up 
against the dark background of the low clouds 
and shot swiftly down wind towards the lines. 

Over the lines she turned again and began 
to fight her way across wind and moving slowly 
north. The wind constantly forced her drifting 
over Hunland, and in accordance with his 
orders to hold close along the front, the pilot 
had to keep making turns that brought him 
facing back to the west and fighting slowly up 
wind, edging off a little and slanting north 
and watching the landscape slide off sideways 
under him. And so, tacking and manoeuvring 
buffeted and wind-blown, he edged his way along 
the front, his eyes alternately on the instrument- 
board and on the ground and puffing shell smoke 



SILVER WINGS 5 

beneath, his ears filled with the roar of his 
engine and the shriek and boom of the wind 
beating about him, his hands and feet in con- 
stant motion, juggling with controls, feeling, 
balancing, handling the throbbing horse-power 
and the wind-tossed fabric under him. And 
so at last, at the end of a hard-fought hour, he 
came to the spot he sought, circled and "sat 
over it" for five minutes, and watched and 
tried to pick up the details of the struggle that 
spluttered and spat in smoke-puffs and flashing 
jets of fire and leaping spouts of earth and 
smoke beneath him. He began to piece to- 
gether the meaning of what he could see, and 
of what he had been told before he set out. A 
body of our infantry in the attack had gone 
too far, or their supports had not come far 
enough, with the result that they had been 
cut off and surrounded and were fighting desper- 
ately to hold off the infantry attacks that pressed 
in on them under a heavy supporting artillery 
fire. The cut-off party were hidden from the 
view of our front line by a slight ridge and a 
wrecked and splintered wood, and their desperate 
straits, the actual fact of their still being in 
existence, much less their exact location, was 
unknown to our side. This much the pilot 
knew or was able to figure out; what he could 
not know was the surge of hope, the throb of 
thankfulness that came to the hard-pressed 
handful below him as they saw the glancing light 
flash from his hovering "Silver Wings." They 
made signals to him, waving a dirty flag and 



6 SILVER WINGS 

straining their eyes up for any sign that he saw 
and understood. And with something very 
near to despair in their hearts they saw the 
shining wings slant and drive slowly up into 
the wind and draw away from over their heads. 

"No good, Jones," said a smoke- and dirt- 
grimed young officer to the man still waving the 
flag. "He doesn't see us, I'm afraid. Better 
put that down and go back and help hold off 
those bombers." 

"Surely he'd hear all this firing, sir," said 
the man, reluctantly ceasing to wave. 

"I think his engine and the wind drowns any 
noise down here," said the officer,, "And if he 
hears anything, there's plenty of heavy gunfire 
all along the front going up to him." 

"But wouldn't he see the shells falling 
amongst us, sir, and the bombs bursting, and 
so on?" said the man. 

"Yes; but he is seeing thousands of shells 
and bombs along the line from up there," said 
the officer; "and I suppose he wouldn't know 
this wasn't just a bit of the ordinary front." 

Another man crawled over the broken debris 
of the trench to where they stood. "Mister 
Waller has been hit, sir," he said; "an' he 
said to tell you it looks like they was musterin' 
for another rush over where he is." 

"Badly hit?" said the officer anxiously. 
"All right, I'll come along." 

"He sees us, sir," said the man with the flag, 
in sudden excitement. "Look, he's fired a 
light." 



SILVER WINGS 7 

"Pity we haven't one to fire," said the officer. 
"But that might be a signal to anyone rather 
than to us." 

He turned to crawl after the man who had 
brought the message, and at the same moment 
a rising rattle of rifle-fire and the quick follow- 
ing detonations of bursting bombs gave notice 
of a fresh attack being begun. Still worse, he 
heard the unmistakable tat-tat-tat of renewed 
machine-gun fire, and a stream of bullets began 
to pour in on them from a group of shell-holes 
to their right flank, less than a hundred yards 
from the broken trench they held. Under cover 
of this pelting fire, that forced the defenders to 
keep their heads down and cost them half a 
dozen quick casualties amongst those who tried 
to answer it, the German bombers crept closer 
in from shell-hole to shell-hole, and their grenades 
came over in faster and thicker showers. The 
little circle of ground held by the group belched 
spurts of smoke, hummed to the passage of 
bullets, crackled and snapped under their im- 
pact, quivered every now and then to the crash 
and burst of shells. They had been fighting 
since the night before; they were already 
running short of ammunition, would have been 
completely short of bombs but for the fact of 
the ground they had taken having held a con- 
creted dug-out with plentiful stores of German 
bombs and grenades which they used to help 
out their own supply. The attack pressed 
savagely; it began to look as if it would be 
merely a matter of minutes before the Germans 



8 SILVER WINGS 

rushed the broken trenches they held, and then, 
as they knew, they must be overwhelmed by 
sheer weight of numbers. Waller, the wounded 
officer, had refused to be moved. "I'll stay 
here and see it out," he said; "I don't suppose 
that will be long now;" and the other, the 
young lieutenant who was the only officer left 
on his feet by this time, could say no more than 
a hopeful " Maybe we'll stand 'em off a bit yet," 
and leave him there to push along the trench 
to where the fire and bombing were heaviest 
and where the rush threatened to break in. 

The din was deafening, a confused uproar of 
rifles and machine-guns cracking and rattling 
out in front and banging noisily in their own 
trench, of bombs and grenades crashing sharply 
on the open or booming heavily in the trench 
bottom, of shells whooping and shrieking over- 
head or crumping savagely on the ground, and, 
as a background of noise to all the other noises, 
the long rolling, unbroken thunder of the guns 
on both sides far up and down the lines. 

But above all the other din the lieutenant 
caught a new sound, a singing, whirring boo- 
00-oom that rose to a deep-throated roar with 
a sharp staccato rap-tap-tap-tap running through 
it. He looked up towards the sound and saw, 
so close that he half ducked his head, a plunging 
shape, a flashing streak of silver light that 
swept over his head and dived straight at the 
ground beyond his trench, with stabbing jets 
of orange flame spitting out ahead of it. A bare 
fifty feet off the ground where the Germans 



SILVER WINGS 9 

crouched in their shell-holes "Silver Wings" 
swooped up sharply, curved over, dived again 
with the flashes of her gun flickering and stream- 
ing, and the bullets hailing down on the heads 
of the attackers. It was more than the Germans, 
lying open and exposed to the overhead attack, 
could bear. They scrambled from their holes, 
floundered and ran crouching back for the 
shelter of deeper trenches, while the lieutenant, 
seeing his chance, yelled and yelled again at his 
men to fire, and seized a rifle himself to help 
cut down the demoralised attack. He could 
see now how close a thing it had been for them, 
the weight of the attack that presently would 
have swarmed over them. The ground was 
alive with running, scrambling grey figures, 
until the bullets pelting amongst them cut 
them down or drove them headlong to cover 
again. Then his men stopped firing and watched 
with hoarse cheering and shouts the dives and 
upward leaps of the silvery shape, her skimmings 
along the ground, her upward wheeling climbs 
followed by the plunging dives with fire spitting 
and sparkling from her bows. The Germans 
were firing at her now with rifles and machine- 
guns until she turned on the spot where these 
last were nested, drove straight at them and 
poured long clattering bursts of fire upon them 
until they were silenced. 

Then she turned and flew over the broken 
British trenches so close that the men in them 
could see the leather-clad head and arm of the 
pilot leaning over the side, could see his wave 



10 SILVER WINGS 

to them, the flung packet that dropped with 
fluttering streamers down amongst them. The 
packet carried a note jerkingly scribbled in 
pencil: "Hang on. I'm taking word of where 
you are, so that they can send help to you. 
Good luck." 

The lieutenant, when he had read, handed 
the message to a sergeant and told him to pass 
it along round the men. And they read and 
shouted cheers they knew he could not hear 
to the pilot lifting the " Silver Wings" steadily 
into the sky and back towards the lines. He 
was high enough now for the "Archies" to 
bear on him again, and from their trenches the 
men watched with anxious hearts and throbs 
of fear and hope the black puffs of smoke that 
broke rapidly above, below, and about the 
glinting silver. He made desperately slow speed 
against the heavy wind, but fortunately had 
not far to go before he was far enough back to 
be over the lines and out of reach of the Archies. 
Then just when it seemed that he was safe, 
when the Archie shells had ceased suddenly to 
puff about him, the watchers saw another 
machine drop from the cover of a cloud, dive 
straight down on the little silver shape, saw the 
silver wings widen as they turned sharply up- 
ward to face the enemy, wheel and shoot side- 
ways to avoid the dive. With beating hearts 
and straining eyes they watched the two dipping 
and curving, lifting and diving, wheeling and 
circling about each other. The battle noises 
drowned all sound of their guns, but they knew 



SILVER WINGS 11 

well the rapid rattle of fire that was going on 
up there, the exchange of shots, the streaming 
bullets that poured about both, thought at 
last they could catch the sound of the firing 
clearly, could see the black cross and circled 
red, white, blue, that marked enemy and friend 
as the two machines drifted back in their fight- 
ing down wind until they were almost overhead. 
Once the watchers gasped as the enemy dived on 
"Silver Wings" and she slipped sideways and 
came down a thousand feet nose first and spinning 
in dizzy circles. The gasp changed to a cry of 
relief as the "Silver Wings" righted, zoomed 
sharply up, whirled round, and in turn dived 
on the enemy machine, that had overshot his 
pursuing dive and come below her. And the 
cry changed again to a yell of applause, a burst 
of cheers, as the enemy swerved suddenly, slid 
drunkenly sideways and down, rolled over, and 
fell away in a spinning dive, swoop after sicken- 
ing swoop, that ended crashing in a clump of 
wood half a mile away. A wind-blown torrent 
of streaming black smoke marked the place of the 
fall and the fate of the enemy. "Silver Wings" 
turned again, and fought her way back towards 
the lines, with the Archie shells puffing and 
splashing about her. 

Down in their trenches the isolated cluster of 
men set about strengthening their defences 
with new heart, made with a new hope prepara- 
tions to withstand the next attacks. It was 
not long before they had help — a help that the 
guns, knowing now exactly where they were 



12 SILVER WINGS 

although they could not see, could send in 
advance of the rescuing attack. A barrage of 
shells began to pound down beyond them, out 
to their right and left, and even behind them. 
"Silver Wings" had dropped her message, and 
the shells brought the answer plain to the cut-off 
party. They knew that they were located, that 
the guns would help out their defence, that rescue 
would come to them as speedily as might be. 

The actual rescue came presently in the shape 
of an attack over the ground they had covered 
the day before. Before it came they had to 
beat off one or two more enemy rushes, but this 
time the help of those barraging shells stood 
them in good stead, the sweeping shrapnel 
prevented the enemy creeping in to occupy in 
comparative safety the shell-holes round the 
position, the steady fall of high explosives broke 
down the enemy trenches and checked free 
movement in them. The Germans were badly 
pounded on that portion of front, so that when 
the rescuing attack was made, it fought its way 
rapidly forward, and the isolated party were 
able to do something to help it merely by hanging 
to their position, by rear and flanking fire on 
the Germans who held the ground between 
them and the attacking line. The attack re- 
sulted in the whole line being pushed forward 
to the ridge behind the separated party, holding 
it, and thrusting forward a little salient which 
took in the ground the party had hung to so 
stoutly, consolidated, and held it firm. 

The rescued men were passed back to their 



SILVER WINGS 13 

lines, and — most of them — to the casualty- 
clearing stations. And when the lieutenant 
brought the remnant of his company back to 
the battalion, he told the Battalion Commander 
his end of the story, and heard in return how 
the message of their whereabouts had been 
brought back and how it had directed the move- 
ment that had got them out. The lieutenant 
wanted to send a word of thanks to " Silver 
Wings" and her pilot, but this the CO. told him 
he could not do. "The pilot was lifted out of his 
machine and taken straight to the CCS., 1 " 
he said. "He was wounded by rifle-fire from 
the ground when he first dived to help you beat 
off that attack. No, not seriously, I'm glad to 
say, but he'd lost a lot of blood, and he got 
rather knocked about landing and broke his 
machine a bit I believe." 

"Wounded," said the lieutenant slowly, "and 
at that time. So he kept on diving his machine 
about and fighting after he was wounded; and 
went through that air fight with his wound, 
and shot the Hun down, and then came on 

back and gave his message " "Dropped a 

note straight into the signallers at Brigade 
Headquarters," said the CO. 

The lieutenant drew a deep breath. "We knew 
we were owing him a lot," he said. "But it 
seems we were owing even more than we thought." 

"And I'm beginning to think," said the CO., 
"that all of us here on the ground are owing more 
than we've known to those fellows in the air." 

1 Casualty Clearing Station. 



II 

BRING HOME THE 'BUS 

For ten minutes past the observer had been 
alternately studying his map and the ground 
20,000 feet below, and now he leaned forward 
out of his cockpit, touched the pilot on the 
shoulder, and made a slight signal with his 
hand. Immediately the machine began to swing 
in a wide curve, while the observer busied him- 
self with his camera and exposed plate after 
plate. 

He looked up and out a moment as there 
came to his ear, dully but unmistakably above 
the roar of the engine, the hoarse "woof" of 
a bursting anti-aircraft shell. The black smoke 
offthe burst showed a good hundred yards out 
to their left and some hundreds of feet above 
them, and the observer returned to his photo- 
graphing. 

"Woof" came another shell, and then in 
quick succession another and another, the last 
one dead ahead and with such correct elevation 
that, a second later, the machine flashed through 
the streaming black smoke of the burst. The 
pilot looked back inquiringly, and the observer 

14 



BRING HOME THE 'BUS 15 

made a sign which meant "Do what you please," 
and sat back to wait until the pilot took such 
steps as he thought fit to disarrange the aim of 
the gunners below. 

The harsh rending cough of another shell 
came so close beneath the machine that both 
men felt her distinctly jolt upward, twisting 
from the wind shock. The pilot waited no 
more. He jammed the controls hard over and 
flung the machine out in a vicious side-slip, 
caught her at the end of it, tipped her nose 
over and plunged straight down with the engine 
full on for a thousand feet, banked sharply, 
pivoting fairly on his wing-tip, and shot off at 
right angles to his former course for a quarter 
of a mile; then, climbing slightly as he went, 
swung hard round again, dipped a little to gather 
speed, hoicked hard up, and in a few seconds 
was back somewhere about the position at 
which he had first departed from the course. 

Back about the point where they had last 
turned a string of black smoke-puffs flashed out 
rapidly. The pilot shut his engine off for an 
instant. "Fooled 'em that time," he yelled 
back, and grinned gleefully at his observer. 
The observer peered out carefully and exposed 
another plate, turned and passed another signal 
to the pilot. Instantly the engine roared out, 
and the machine tipped her bows down and 
went plunging earthward. The observer watched 
the needle of his height indicator drop back 
and back through 20,000, 19, 18, 17, 16, hang 
there an instant, leap up again to 16 and 17. 



16 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 

There it stayed quivering for ten seconds, while 
the machine hurtled forward at a hundred miles 
an hour on a level keel. There the pilot dropped 
her nose a little again and went slanting down 
with the engine full on, and the needle of the 
speed indicator climbing up and up until the 
speed touched 140 miles an hour and the height 
indicator dropped to a 14,000-foot level. 

The Archie shells were spouting and splashing 
round them in all directions, but their erratic 
course had sufficiently upset the gunners to bring 
the bursts well out and clear, and the pilot made 
the last steep dizzying plunge that brought him 
to the 10,000-foot height his observer had asked 
for. But at this height they were well within 
the range of smaller Archie batteries, and the 
observer jerked the handle of his camera to 
and fro at intervals, with the racking cough of 
the shells sounding perilously close, and the 
reek of their burst at times swirling past as the 
machine tore through their smoke. Three times 
heavy splinters whurred viciously past them, 
and once a sharp crack and rip left a gaping 
black rent in the cloth of the body close astern 
of the observer. 

For a good ten minutes the machine circled 
and swung and darted to and fro, while the 
observer hung on and snapped his plates at 
such objects as he wanted on the ground below; 
and for all that ten minutes the Archies con- 
tinued to pitch a stream of shells up round and 
over and under them. 

Then the observer signalled " finished," and 



BRING HOME THE 'BUS 17 

the machine jerked round and streaked off at 
top speed in a series of curves and zigzags that 
carried her westward and homeward as straight 
as the pilot dared drive in avoiding the shells 
that continued to follow them. The pilot kept 
her nose down a little as he went, so as to 
obtain the maximum speed, but when he began 
to run out of range of the Archies and leave 
their smoke bursts well astern, he tilted up and 
pushed straight west at top speed, but on a 
long climb that brought him up a thousand 
feet a mile. Presently he felt the signal cord 
looped about his arm jerk and jerk again, and, 
tilting the machine's nose slightly downward, 
he shut off his engine and let her glide and 
twisted round to the observer. 

"Huns," yelled the observer. "Six of 'em, 
and coming like stink," and he pointed up and 
astern to half a dozen dots in the sky. 

"Would you like a scrap, Spotty?" shouted 
the pilot. " Shall we take 'em on? " 

"Don't ask me," shouted Spotty. "Ask 
the Hun. He'll scrap if he wants to, and you 
and your old 'bus can't help it, Barry." 

"Thought you knew the old 'Marah' better," 
retorted Barry. "You watch"; and he twisted 
in his seat and opened his engine out. 

Now the "Marah" was the pride of her 
Squadron, and, most inordinately, of her pilot. 
Built line by line to the blue-print of her class, 
fraction by fraction of an inch in curve, straight, 
and stream-line, to the design of her sisters in 
the Squadron, differing no hair's-breadth from 



18 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 

them in shape, size, engine, or propeller, she 
yet by some inscrutable decree was the best of 
them all in every quality that counts for best 
in a machine. There are theories to account 
for these not uncommon differences, the most 
popular and plausible being that the better 
machine is so merely because of some extra 
skill and minute care in her and her engine's build- 
ing, last touches of exactness and perfection in 
the finish of their parts and their assembling. 

The "Marah" could outclimb anything in 
the Squadron with the most ridiculous ease, 
outclimb them in feet per minute, and in final 
height; she could outfly them on any level from 
100 to 20,000 feet, could " out-stunt" them— 
although here perhaps the pilot had as much to 
say as the machine — in any and every stunt they 
cared to challenge her on. Barry, her young 
pilot, literally loved her. He lost no chance of 
trying her out against other types of machines, 
and there were few of the fastest and best types 
even amongst the single-seater scout machines 
that could beat her on a level fly, or that she 
could not leave with her nose held slightly 
down. No two-seater Barry had ever met 
could come anywhere near the "Marah" in 
stunting, in the ease and speed at which he 
could put her through all sorts of fancy spins, 
loops, side-slips, and all the rest of the bag of 
air tricks. How much of her superiority was 
due to her own qualities and how much to her 
pilot it is hard to say, because certain it is that 
Barry could climb her nearly a thousand feet 



BRING HOME THE 'BUS 19 

higher, and drive her several knots faster, than 
any other pilot who had flown her. 

It is because of all these things that Barry- 
had preferred to make this particular photo- 
graphing trip a lone-hand one. It was a long- 
distance journey far back behind the German 
lines, to a spot known to be well protected by 
long-range Archies, and of such importance 
that it was certain to order out fast fighting 
machines to cut off any flight taking back 
reports or photographs. Barry's arguments for 
his single-handed trip were simple, and, as the 
Squadron Commander had to admit, sound. 
"One machine stands much more chance of 
sneaking over high up without being spotted 
than a whole flight," said Barry. "When 
we're there I can chuck the 'bus about any old 
how to dodge the Archies, while Spotty snaps 
his pictures; and if we're tackled by any E.A., 1 
the old 'Marah' could probably outfly them 
by herself. And since you're so beastly positive 
that this isn't a scrapping stunt, I'd sooner be 
on my own and free to dodge and run and use 
clouds and so on without having to think of 
keeping formation. Don't you worry. We'll 
come through all right." 

The Squadron Commander gave in. "Right 
oh," he said reluctantly. "And do keep your 
eyes skinned for Huns and run from 'em if 
you've a chance. This information is wanted 
badly, remember, and you mustn't risk getting 
scuppered with it. And, besides we can't afford 
1 E.A. Enemy Aircraft. 



20 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 

to lose the 'Marah' out of the Squadron. You 
don't count of course, but the old 'bus is too 
good to lose." 

He hid a good deal of anxiety under his 
chaffing, and Barry, reading that and the friend- 
ship that bred it, laughed and took the same 
light-hearted tone. "You won't lose her," he 
said. "If a Hun punctures me and Spotty 
we'll just jump overboard and tell the old girl 
to push along home on her own. She's jolly 
near got sense enough to do it too, I believe." 

Now all this was in Barry's mind when Spotty 
told him of the pursuing enemy, and so he set 
himself to take every ounce of advantage he 
could. The machines behind were travelling 
faster, because they had sighted him from a 
much higher level, and had all the additional 
speed that a downward slant gave them, while 
the "Marah," still held on a slightly upward 
incline, lost something of her top speed thereby. 

Barry knew there were Archie batteries to be 
passed over on the way back, and if he meant 
to keep a straight course it was necessary that 
he should be as far above them as possible. 
He leaned out and peered down at the landscape 
wheeling and unrolling under them, picked out 
the spot he was watching for — a village where 
he knew Archie batteries were located — and 
altered course slightly to give it a wider berth. 
In another minute the Archie shells began to 
bark about them. At the first one that came 
dangerously close the "Marah" hoicked abruptly 
upward 500 feet, wheeled sharp south for half 



BRING HOME THE 'BUS 21 

a mile, swung again and drove straight west. 
Twice she had to swerve and dodge in similar 
fashion before she cleared the zone of the 
Archies' range, and these swerves and their 
faster downward passage allowed the enemy 
craft to overhaul her considerably. Spotty 
swung his machine-gun round in readiness and 
trained it aft and up on the hostiles. 

Two single-seaters were half a mile ahead of 
the other four and looming larger every minute. 
They were within long range now, and, presently, 
one of them loosed off a dozen rounds or so at 
the "Marah." Spotty jerked a signal that he 
was going to fire, and taking careful sight rapped 
off about twenty rounds. The range was too 
great yet for him, and the Huns made no sign 
of a swerve from their direct path, so Spotty 
ceased firing and waited, glancing over his sights 
at one machine that had forged slightly ahead 
of the other. Barry looked back over his 
shoulder and up at the two machines. They 
were still a good thousand feet above the 
" Marah," but Barry was satisfied enough with 
the way the game was running, because while 
they had dropped from perhaps 20,000 feet to 
15,000, the " Marah" had gained 3,000 to 4,000 
as she flew. 

The advantage of height was half the battle, 
and Barry wanted to snatch every inch of it 
he could gain. For that reason he passed a 
signal back to Spotty to open fire again, and 
Spotty obediently began to rip out a series 
of short bursts. The two men had flown so 



22 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 

long together that each knew the other's* dodges 
and ideas to an extent precious beyond words, and 
had a code of brief signals in head-noddings and 
jerkings and hand motions that saved much waste 
of time and breath in shutting off engine to shout 
messages or yelling through the communicating 
'phone. Spotty figured now just the plan Barry 
had in mind, a plan to hustle the enemy into 
making his attempt before he was at the closest 
effective range for a diving attack. The plan 
succeeded too. His bullets must have been 
going somewhere close, for Spotty saw the nearest 
machine swerve ever so slightly, as if her pilot 
had flinched or ducked instinctively. Then 
Spotty saw her nose dip slightly until it was 
pointed straight at the "Marah," the machine- 
gun firing through her propeller broke out in 
a long rapid burst of fire, and the " tracer" 
bullets 1 came flashing and streaming past in thin 
pencils of flame and smoke. What followed takes 
a good deal longer in the telling than it did in the 
happening. All three machines were travelling, 
remember, at a speed of anything round a 
hundred knots, a speed that rose at times as 
they dipped and dived to nearer perhaps a 
hundred and thirty and forty. While they 
were flying on the same course with little differ- 
ence in speed each airman could see the other 
closely and in detail, could watch each little 
movement, look over at leisure small items about 
each other's machines. Mere groundlings cannot 

1 Tracer bullets emit smoke and flame to allow the shooter 
to follow their flight. 



BRING HOME THE 'BUS 23 

get nearer to the sensation than to imagine or 
remember sitting at the window of a carriage 
on the slow lumbering sixty-mile-an-hour express, 
watching the almost equally slow mail rushing 
over the rails at sixty-five miles on a parallel 
line, and seeing the passengers at her windows 
scanning deliberately the shape of your hat or 
colour of your hair. 

In just such fashion Spotty saw the pilot of 
the leading machine rise slightly and glance 
astern at his companion, saw him settle himself 
in his seat, saw him raise a hand and motion 
downward. Instantly he jerked the cord fast 
to Barry's shoulder, signalling "look out," and 
with swift clockwork motions snatched the 
almost empty drum of his machine-gun, and 
replaced it with the full one he held ready 
clutched between his knees. 

Vaguely in the swift ensuing seconds he felt 
the machine under him sway and leap and reel; 
but his whole mind was for that time concen- 
trated on his gun sights, on keeping them full 
on the bulk of the machine astern of him, in 
pressing the trigger at the exact critical second. 
He saw the round bow of his nearest pursuer 
lift and for one long breath saw the narrow 
tapering length of her underbody behind it. 
That was a chance, and he filled it full and 
brimming with a fifty-round burst of which he 
saw the bullets flash and disappear in the 
fuselage above him. Then in a flash the under- 
body disappeared, and the rounded bow of the 
hostile came plunging down on him, growing 



24 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 

and widening as it came full power and speed 
of engine and gravity pull. He was dimly- 
conscious of her firing as she came, and he 
kept his own gun going, pumping bullets in a 
constant stream, his eye glued to the sights, his 
finger clenched about the trigger. Somehow 
he knew — just knew, without reasoning or 
thinking it out — that his bullets were going to 
their mark, and it gave him no slightest touch 
of astonishment when he saw his enemy stagger, 
leap upward, lurch and roll until she stood 
straight up on her wing-tip, and so, banking 
and deflecting from the "Marah's" course, flash 
in a split fraction of a second out of the fight. 

He had no more than a glimpse of a gust of 
fire and gush of black smoke from somewhere 
about her before she vanished from his sight, 
and he was training his sights on a second shape 
that came swooping and plunging down upon 
him. This second enemy made better play 
with her gun. With deadly slowness and per- 
sistence, as it seemed, she closed, yard by yard. 
Spotty trained his gun full in the centre of the 
quivering light rays that marked the circle of 
her whirling propeller, and poured burst after 
burst straight at the jerking flashes of the 
machine-gun that blazed through her propeller. 
He felt an agonising jar on his ankle . . . but 
the drum of his machine-gun snapped out its 
last cartridge, and Spotty smoothly and method- 
ically whipped off the empty drum, stooped 
and lifted a full one, fitted it in place, and 
looking over his sights rapped his gun into action 



BRING HOME THE 'BUS 25 

again; while all the time the bullets of his 
adversary hailed and ripped and tore about 
and upon the "Marah," riddling the rudder, 
slashing along the stern, cracking in the whip- 
like reports of explosive bullets about the 
observer's cockpit, lifting forward and rap-rap- 
rapping about the bows and the pilot's stooped 
head. The " Marah" leaped out suddenly and 
at full stride in a hundred-foot sideslip, checked, 
and hurtled upward; and in that breath of 
time the pursuer flicked past and down and 
out of the vision of Spotty's sights. 

It was all over so quickly that Spotty, looking 
overside, could still see the first enemy spinning 
down jerkily with black smoke whirling up 
from her fuselage, spinning helplessly down, as 
he knew, to hit the earth 15,000 feet below. 
Spotty felt suddenly and surprisingly sick and 
faint. His particular story blurs somewhat 
from here on, because he himself was never 
able to supply it in detail. He was able to 
answer Barry — Barry turning to shout his 
question while the "Marah" tore along at her 
full 110 knots — that he'd been hit somewhere 
about the foot or leg, and didn't feel much, 
except sick. This Barry was able to gather 
with some difficulty, after juggling with the 
wheel beside him that shifted angles of incidence, 
and more or less stabilised the "Marah's" 
flight, abandoning his controlling " joy-stick," 
clambering up on his seat, and hanging back 
and over to bring his head into the observer's 
cockpit and his ear within reach of Spotty's feeble 



26 BRING HOME THE BUS 

attempts at a shout. He himself was rather unfit 
for these acrobatics, owing to certain unpleasant 
and punishing wounds just received. While he 
attempted to carry on his laboured inquiries, the 
"Marah," her engine throttled down and her 
controls left to look after themselves, swooped 
gently and leisurely, slid downwards on a gliding 
slant for a thousand feet, pancaked into an air- 
pocket, and fell off into a spinning dive. 

While she plunged earthward at a rate of some 
hundred feet per second Barry finished his in- 
quiries, dragged or pushed back into his seat — it 
was really down into his seat, since the "Marah" 
at the moment was standing on her head and 
his seat was between the observer's and the 
bows, but the wind pressure at that speed made 
it hard work to slide down — took hold of his 
controls, waited the exact and correct moment, 
flattened the "Marah" out of her spin, opened 
the throttle and went booming off again to 
westward a bare 5,000 feet above ground level. 

He had, it is true, a moment's parley and a 
swift summing up of the situation before he 
turned the "Marah's" bows definitely for 
home. And the situation was ugly enough to 
be worth considering. Spotty (Barry thought 
of him first) was in a bad way — leg smashed to 
flinders — explosive evidently — bleeding like a 
stuck pig (wonder would the plates be spoiled, 
or was the camera built water-tight, or blood- 
tight?) — very doubtful if he'd last out the 
journey home. Then Barry himself had wounds 
— the calf of his left leg blown to shreds, and 



BRING HOME THE 'BUS 27 

the toes of his left foot gone, and, most up- 
settingly painful of all, a gaping hole where his 
left eye should be, a blood-streaming agony 
that set his senses reeling and wavering and 
clearing slowly and painfully. This last wound, 
as it proved, was the result of a ricochetting 
bullet which, nicking forward as Barry had 
turned his head, cut his left eye clean from its 
socket. 

The summing up was very clear and simple. 
They were a good thirty miles from the 
lines; Spotty might easily bleed to death in 
less than that; he, Barry, might do the same, 
or might faint from pain and exhaustion. In 
that case done-finish himself, and Spotty, and 
the "Marah," in a drop of 5,000 feet and a 
full hundred-mile-an-hour crash below. On the 
other hand, he had only to move his hand, push 
the joy-stick out and sweep the "Marah" 
down, flatten her out and pick a decent field, 
land, and he and Spotty would be in the doctor's 
hands in a matter of minutes, both of them safe 
and certain of their lives at least. In seconds 
they could be "on the floor" and in safety — and 
in German hands . . . the two of them and 
. . . and . . . the "Marah." It was probably 
the thought of the "Marah" that turned the 
scale, if ever the scale really hung in doubt. 
"We can't afford . . ." — what was it the 
Squadron Commander had said? — "can't afford 
to lose the old 'Marah' from the Squadron." 
No (Barry's vision cleared mentally and physic- 
ally at the thought), — no, and, by the Lord, the 



28 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 

Squadron wasn't going to lose the "Marah," 
not if it was in him to bring the old 'bus home. 

He knew it was going to be a close thing, 
for himself and for the "Marah"; and care- 
fully he set himself to take the last and least 
ounce of the chances in favour of his getting 
the " Marah" across the line. It would be 
safer to climb high and cross the fire of the 
Archies that waited him on the line; safer so 
far as dodging the shells went, but cutting down 
the limit set to his strength and endurance by 
the passing minutes. On the level, or with her 
nose a little down, the " Marah" would make 
the most of the time left her, or rather left him. 
His senses blurred and swam again; he felt 
himself lurching forward in his seat, knew that 
this was pushing the joy-stick forward and the 
"Marah's" nose to earth, shoved himself back 
in his seat and clutched the stick desperately 
to him . . . and woke slowly a minute after 
to find the "Marah's" bows pointed almost 
straight up, her engine struggling to lift her, his 
machine on the very verge of stalling and falling 
back into the gulf. He flung her nose down 
and forward hastily, and the "Marah" ducked 
gracefully over like a hunter taking an easy 
fence, steadied and lunged forward in arrow- 
straight flight. 

After this Barry concentrated on the faces 
of the clock, the height and the speed indi- 
cators. Once or twice he tried to look over- 
side to locate his position, but the tearing 
hurricane wind of the "Marah's" passage 



BRING HOME THE 'BUS 29 

so savaged his torn face and eye that he was 
forced back into the cover of his windscreen. 
Five minutes went. Over, well over a hundred 
the speed indicator said the "Marah" was 
doing. Nearly 5,000 up the height indicator 
said (must have climbed a lump in that minute's 
haziness, concluded Barry), and, reckoning to 
cross the line somewhere inside the 500 up — 
which after all would risk machine-gun and 
rifle fire, but spare them the Archies — would 
allow him to slant the "Marah" down a trifle 
and get a little more speed out of her. He tilted 
her carefully and watched the speed indicator 
climb slowly and hang steady. 

And so another five minutes went. Two 
thousand up said the indicator; and "woof, 
woof, woof" grunted a string of Archie shells. 
"Getting near the line," said Barry, and pushed 
the joy-stick steadily forward. The "Marah" 
hurtled downward on a forty-five degree slant, 
her engine full out, the wind screaming and shriek- 
ing about her. Fifteen hundred, a thousand, 
five hundred pointed the needle of the height 
indicator, and slowly and carefully Barry pulled 
the "MarahV head up and held her racing at 
her top speed on the level. 

Fifteen minutes gone. They must be near 
the lines now. He could catch, faint and far 
off through the booming roar of his engine, 
the rattle of rifle fire, and a faint surprise took 
him at the sound of two strange raps, and 
the sight of two- neat little round holes in the 
instrument board and map in front of him. He 



30 BRING HOME THE 'BUS 

looked out, carefully holding the joy-stick steady 
in one hand and covering his torn eye with the 
other, and saw the wriggling white lines of 
trenches flashing past close below. Then from 
the cockpit behind him broke out a steady 
clatter and jar of the observer's machine-gun. 
Barry looked round to see Spotty, chalk-faced 
and tight-lipped, leaning over the side with 
arms thrust out and pointing his gun straight 
to earth with a stream of flashes pouring from 
the muzzle. "Good man," murmured Barry, 
"oh, good man," and made the "Marah" 
wriggle in her flight as a signal. 

Spotty looked round, loosened his lips in a 
ghastly grin, and waved an arm signalling to 
turn at right angles. "Nothin' doin', my son," 
said Barry grinning back. "It's 'Home, John' 
for us this time. But fancy the priceless old 
fellow wanting to go touring their front line 
spraying lead on 'em. Good lad, Spotty." 

A minute later he felt his senses reel, and his 
sight blacken again, but he gripped his teeth on 
his lip and steered for the clump of wood that 
hid his own Squadron's landing ground. 

He made his landing there too; made it a 
trifle badly, because when he came to put 
rudder on he found that his left leg refused its 
proper work. And so he crashed at the last, 
crashed very mildly it is true, but enough to 
skew the wheels and twist the frame of the 
under-carriage a little. 

And as Spotty's first words when he was 
lifted from his cockpit were of the crash — 



BRING HOME THE 'BUS 31 

"Barry, you blighter, if you've crashed those 
plates of mine I'll never forgive you. . . . 
You'll find all the plates exposed, Major, 
and notes of the bearing and observations in 
my pocket-book" — so also were Barry's last 
of the same thing. He didn't speak till near 
the end. Then he opened his one eye to the 
Squadron Commander waiting at his bedside 
and made an apology . . . ("An apology . . . 
Good Lord! ..." as the Major said after). 
"Did I crash her badly, Major?" And when 
the Major assured him No, nothing that wouldn't 
repair in a day, and that the "Marah" would 
be ready for him when he came back to them, he 
shook his head faintly. "But it doesn't matter," 
he said. "Anyhow, I got her home. . . . And 
if I'm 'going West,' the old 'Marah' will go 
East again . . . and get some more Huns for 
you." He ceased, and was silent a minute. 
Then "I'm sorry I crashed her, Major . . . but 
y'see, . . . my leg . . . was a bit numb." 
He closed his eye; and died. 



A pilot lost doesn't very much count. 

(But don't tell his girl or his mater this!) 
There's always another to take his mount, 

And push the old 'bus where the Archies miss. 
But a 'bus that's lost you can't renew, 
For where one works there's the want of two 
And all they can make are still too few, 

So we must bring home the 'bus. 



Ill 

A TENDER SUBJECT 

The telling of this tale in the Squadron Mess 
came about through (1) a mishap, (2) a joke, 
and (3) an argument. The mishap was to 
a fighting two-seater, which landed on the 
Squadron's 'drome with a dud engine. The 
pilot and observer made their way to the Squad- 
ron office and, after a brief 'phone talk to their 
own CO., borrowed a tender and pushed 
off for their own 'drome. The leader of "A" 
Flight walked down to the tender, chatting 
to them, and four of the Squadron's pilots 
took advantage of the chance of a lift in to 
a town the tender had to pass on the journey. 
All of them heard and all were a little sur- 
prised at "A" Commander's parting word to 
the two visitors. " I've told the driver to go slow 
and careful," he said. "You fellows just watch 
he does it, will you?" 

The joke began to dawn on the four just 
after the tender had carefully cleared the first 
bend of the road from the 'drome and the driver 
began to open her up and let her rip. The 
joke grew with the journey, and the four on 
their return to the Squadron that afternoon 

32 



A TENDER SUBJECT 33 

burst into the full ante-room and, announcing 
it "Such a joke, oh, such a joke!" went on to 
tell it in competing quartette to a thoroughly- 
appreciative audience. It appeared that one 
passenger — "the pale-faced nervy-looking little 
'un with pink eye-rims" — had showed distinct 
uneasiness when the tender rushed a dip-and- 
rise at top speed, and his observer— "a reg'lar 
Pickwick Fat Boy, quakin' like a jelly" — com- 
plained openly and bitterly when the tender 
took a corner on the two outside wheels and 
missed a country cart with six inches and a 
following gust of French oaths to spare. 

When, by the grace o' God, and by a bare 
hand's-breadth, they shaved past a lumbering 
M.T. lorry, "Pink Eye" and "Fat Boy" clung 
dumb to each other and plainly devoted them- 
selves to silent prayer. The dumbness deserted 
them and they made up all arrears of speech, 
and to spare, when the tender took four heaps 
of road-metal by the wayside in a series of 
switch-backing hand-springs. "'Course we 
twigged your joke by then," said the four to 
"A" leader. "I suppose you delivered the 
driver his go-slow order with a large-sized wink 
and he savvied what you meant." It appeared 
that Pink Eye had asked the four to make 
the driver slow down, or to kill him or some- 
thing. They pretended innocence and said he 
was a most careful man, and so on. Fat 
Boy nearly wept when they met a Staff car 
travelling fast and, never slacking an ounce, 
whooped past with a roar; and after a hairpin 



34 A TENDER SUBJECT 

bend, which the tender took like a fancy skater 
doing the figure-of-eight, Pink Eye completely 
broke up and swore that he was going to get 
off and walk. "He'd have done it too," 
said the four delightedly, "if we hadn't eased 
her up. But you never saw such a state of 
funk as those two were in. Kept moppin' 
their brows, and apologisin' for their nerves, 
and fidgetin' and shiverin' like wet kittens every . 
time we took a corner or met a cart. It was 
too funny — really funny." i 

This led to the argument — whether men with 
nerves of that sort could be any good in air 
work. "I know I'd hate to be a pilot with 
an observer of that kind watching my tail, 
almost as much as I'd hate to be an observer 
with Pink Eye for a pilot," said one, and most 
there agreed. A few argued that it was possible 
for men to be brave enough in one kind of show 
and the very opposite in another — that one 
fellow could do the V.C. act seven days a week 
under fire and take every sort of risk in action 
without turning a hair, and yet go goosey- 
fleshed on a Channel crossing in a choppy sea, 
while another man might enjoy sailing a boat 
single-handed in a boiling white sea, and yet 
be genuinely nervous about dodging across the 
full traffic-tide of a London thoroughfare. Most 
of those present declined to believe these theories, 
maintaining stoutly that a good plucked 'un 
was always such, and that an obvious funk 
couldn't be anything else — except in novelettes 
and melodrama. Then came the story. 



A TENDER SUBJECT 35 

"Did y'ever hear of 'Charger' Wicks?" said 
the Captain of "A." "No? Well, you're 
rather recently out, so you mightn't, but — well, 
he's fairly well known out here. He's rather a 
case in point " 

Being told by an expert to an audience of 
experts, his tale was put more briefly, technically, 
and air-slangily than I may hope to do, but 
here is the sense of it. 

"Charger" Wicks was a pilot in a well-known 
fighting squadron, and was so called from 
a favourite tactic of his in air fighting and 
his insistent advice to the rest of the Flight 
he came to command to follow his plan of 
attack. "Always charge straight at your Hun 
if you get a chance," he would say. "Drive 
straight and hard nose-on at him, keeping your 
gun going hot. If you keep straight, he'll 
flinch — every time; and as he turns up, down, 
or out, you get a full-length target underneath, 
topside, or broadside. If you keep on and 
shoot straight, you're bound to get a hatful of 
bullets into him somewhere." 

The plan certainly seemed to work, and 
Charger notched up a good tally of crashed 
Huns, but others in the Squadron warned him 
he'd try it once too often. " Charge straight 
at him, and he'll dodge," said Charger. 
"Wait," said the others. "Some day you'll 
meet a Hun who works on the same rule; then 
where'll you be?" "Yes," said Billy Bones, 
Charger's observer, "and where'll I be?" 
But although he pretended to grumble, Billy 



36 A TENDER SUBJECT 

Bones was, as a matter of fact, quite in agree- 
ment on the nose-on charging stunt and be- 
lieved in it as firmly as Charger himself. It 
took nerve, he admitted, but if you had that 
— and Charger certainly had — it worked all 
right. As it happened, the nerves of both were 
to be "put through it" rather severely. 

They were up with the Flight one day, 
Charger with Billy Bones leading in their 
pet 'bus Y221. They ran into a scrap with odds 
of about two to one against them, and in the 
course of it Charger got a chance to put his 
old tactic to the proof. The moment he swung 
Y221 and headed her straight at a Hun scout, 
Billy knew what was coming, and heaved 
his gun round ready for any shot that offered 
as the Hun flinched past. But this time it 
looked as if the Squadron's old warning was 
going to be fulfilled and that Charger had 
met the Hun with the same rule as himself. 
Charger's gun began to rattle at about one 
hundred yards' range, and the Hun opened 
at the same moment. Billy, crouching with 
his gun at the ready and his eyes glued on a 
scarlet boss in the centre of the Hun's propeller, 
saw and heard the bullets stream smoking and 
cracking past and on their machine. It does 
not take long for two machines travelling about 
a hundred miles per hour to cover a hundred 
yards, but to Billy, staring tense at that grow- 
ing scarlet blot, each split fraction of a second 
was an age, and as the shape of the Hun grew 
but showed no sign of a changing outline, 



A TENDER SUBJECT 37 

Billy's thoughts raced. Charger, he knew, 
wouldn't budge an inch from his line; if the 
Hun also held straight ... he still held straight 
. . . the slightest deviation up or down would 
show instantly in the wings, seen edgeways in 
thin lines, thickening and widening. The bullets 
were coming deadly close . . . and the red 
boss grew and grew. If the Hun didn't give 
now — this instant — it would be too late . . . 
they must collide. The approaching wing- 
edges still showed their thin straight line, and 
Billy, with a mental "Too late now!" gasped 
and gripped his gun and waited the crash. 

Then, at the last possible instant, the Hun's 
nerve gave — or, rather, it gave just an instant 
too late. Billy had a momentary vision of the 
thin wing-edges flashing wide, of the black 
crosses on the under side, of a long narrow 
strip of underbody and tail suddenly appearing 
below the line of the planes; and then, before 
he could move or think, he felt the Y221 jar 
violently, heard horrible sounds of splintering, 
cracking, tearing, had a terrifying vision of a 
great green mass with splashed ugly yellow 
spots rearing up over the top plane before his 
startled eyes, plunging past over his ducking 
head with splintering wreckage and flapping 
streamers of fabric whizzing and rushing about 
his ears. Y221 — whirling, jolting, twisting all 
ways and every way at once apparently — fell 
away in a series of sickening jerks that threatened 
to wrench her joint from joint. Billy's thoughts 
raced down ahead of them to where they would 



38 A TENDER SUBJECT 

hit the ground 15,000 feet below . . . how long 
would it take . . . would they hit nose-first 
or how . . . was there anything he could do? 
— and before his mind shaped the question he 
had answered it — No, nothing ! Dully he noticed 
that their engine had stopped, that Charger 
apparently was busy at the controls; then — 
with a gleam of wondering hope, dismissed at 
first, but returning and growing — that the lurch- 
ing and rolling was steadying, that they were 
coming back on an even keel, were . . . yes, 
actually, were gliding smoothly down. 

Charger twisted and looked down over- 
side, then back at Billy and yelled, "D'ye see 
him?" Billy looked over, and next instant 
saw a vanishing shape with one wing folded back, 
saw another wing that had torn clear floating 
and " leafing" away on its own. The shape 
plunged plummet-wise until it was lost in the 
haze below. Billy turned inboard. " Broken 
in air," he shouted, and Charger nodded and 
turned again to his controls. Billy saw that 
their propeller was gone, only one jagged splinter 
of a blade remaining. 

They made a long glide back and a good 
landing well behind the lines on a grass field. 
"What happened?" said Billy the moment 
they had come to rest. "He flinched, of course," 
said Charger. "Ran it a bit fine, and our 
prop caught his tail and tore it up some. I 
dunno that we're much hurt, except for the 
prop and that broken strut." 

And, amazingly enough, they were not. The 



A TENDER SUBJECT 39 

leading edge of a top plane was broken and 
cracked along its length, one strut was snapped, 
the propeller gone, a few jagged holes from bullets 
and Hun splinters ripped in their fabric. "God 
bless the people who built her!" said Charger 
piously. "Good stuff and good work in that 
old 'bus, Billy. That's all that brought us 
through." 

Billy mopped his brow. "Hope we don't 
meet any more of that breed of Hun," he said. 
"I find I don't like collisions — not one little 
bit." 

"He flinched at the finish, though," said 
Charger simply. "They all do." 

When they got Y221 back to the 'drome and 
overhauled her they found her wrenched a bit, 
but in a couple of days she was tautened up 
into trim and in the air again. 

And the very next morning, as if this weren't 
enough, Charger and Billy had another 
nerve-testing. They were up about 12,000 and 
well over Hunland when they ran into a patch 
of Archies, and Charger turned and led the 
formation straight towards a bank of white 
cloud that loomed up, solid looking as a huge 
bolster, before them. The sun was dead be- 
hind them, so Billy at first sat looking over the 
tail on the watch for any Huns who might try 
to attack "out of the sun" and its blinding 
glare. But as it was dead astern over the tail 
Billy could see clearly above and behind him, 
so that there was no chance of a Hun diving 
unseen from a height, and they were moving 



40 A TENDER SUBJECT 

too fast to be overtaken on the level "out of 
the sun." Billy turned round and watched the 
cloud they were driving at. The sun was full 
on it, and it rose white and glistening like a 

chalk cliff — no, more like a — like a Billy 

was idly searching his mind for a fitting simile, 
when his thoughts broke and he yelled fiercely 
and instinctively in warning to Charger. 
But Charger had seen too, as Billy knew from 
his quick movement and sudden alert sit- 
up. The cloud was anything round a hundred 
yards from them, and they could just see the 
slow curling twisting movement of its face. 
And — what had suddenly startled them — they 
could see another machine, still buried back 
in the cloud, and looming large and distorted 
by the mist, but plainly flying out of it and 
straight at them. 

What followed was over and done in the space 
of seconds, although it may seem long in the 
telling, as it certainly was age-long in the sus- 
pense of the happening and waiting for the 
worst of it. Billy perhaps, powerless to act, 
able only to sit tense and staring, felt the strain 
the worst, although it must have been bad 
enough for Charger, knowing that their slen- 
der hope of escape hung on his quick think- 
ing and action. This was no clear case of 
following his simple plan of charging and waiting 
for the Hun to flinch. The whole success of 
the plan depended on the Hun seeing and 
knowing the charge was coming — on his nerve 
failing to meet it. Charger didn't even know 



A TENDER SUBJECT 41 

this was a Hun. He might be one of ours. 
He might have seen them, and at that very 
second be swerving to miss them. He might 
be blinded in the cloud and know nothing of 
them driving full-on into him. All this 
went through Charger's mind in a flash, and 
almost in that same flash he had decided on 
his action and taken it. He thrust the nose 
of Y221 steeply down. Even in the fraction 
of time it took for him to decide and his hand 
to move the control lever he could see the 
difference in the misty shape before him, could 
judge by the darkening, hardening and solidi- 
fying outline the speed of their approach. And 
then, exactly as his bows plunged down, he saw 
and knew that what he feared had happened — 
the other pilot had seen him, had thought and 
acted exactly as he had. Charger saw the 
thin line of the edge-on wings broaden, the 
shadowy shape of the tail appear above them, 
just as he had seen it so often when the Hun 
he charged had flinched and ducked. But then 
the flinching had meant safety to him driving 
straight ahead— now it meant disaster, dipping 
as he was fairly to meet the other. 

Again for the fraction of a second he hesitated 
— should he push on down, or turn up? Which 
would the other do? And again before the 
thought was well framed it was decided and acted 
on. He pulled the stick hard in, zoomed up, and 
held his breath, waiting. The shape was clearer 
and harder, must be almost out of the cloud-^- 
doubtful even now if Y221 had time and room 



42 A TENDER SUBJECT 

to rise clear — all right if the other held on down, 
but 

The nose of his machine swooped up, and 
as it did, and before it shut out his view ahead, 
Charger, with a cold sinking inside him, 
saw the outline ahead flash through changing 
shapes again, the wings narrow and close to 
edge-on view, open and widen again with the 
tail dropping below. Again the other man's 
thought and action had exactly followed his 
own. No time to do more; by the solid appear- 
ance he knew the other machine must be just 
on the edge of the cloud, and they were almost 
into it, its face already stirring and twisting to 
the propeller rush. Charger's one thought at 
the moment was to see his opponent's nose 
thrust out — to know was it a Hun or one of 
ours. 

Billy Bones, sitting tight with fingers locked 
on the cockpit edge, had seen, followed and 
understood every movement they had made, 
the full meaning of that changing outline before 
them, the final nearness shown by the solidity 
of the approaching grey shape; and the one 
thought in his mind was a memory of two 
men meeting face to face on a pavement, both 
stepping sideways in the same direction, stepping 
back, hesitating and stepping aside again, halt- 
ing, still face to face, and glaring or grinning at 
each other. Here they were doing just the 
same, only up and down instead of sideways 
— and here there was no stopping. 

He too saw the spread of wings loom up and 



A TENDER SUBJECT 43 

out of either side of them, rushing up to meet 
them. The spread almost matched and measured 
their own — which meant a nose-to-nose crash. 
The cloud face was stirring, swirling, tearing 
open from the rush of their opposing windage. 
Had Charger time to — no, no time. They 
must be just ... it would be on the very 
cloud edge they would meet — were meeting 
(why didn't Charger turn, push her down, do 
something — anything) . . . meeting . . . (no 
escape after this collision — end on!) . . . now! 

Next instant they were in darkness — thick, 
wet, clammy darkness. No shock and crash 
of collision yet ... or yet. Billy didn't under- 
stand. Was he dead? Could you be killed so 
instantaneously you didn't feel it? It wasn't 
quite dark — and he could feel the cockpit rim 
under his hands — and 

They burst clear of the cloud, with trailing 
wisps sucking astern after them. He was be- 
wildered. Then, even as Charger turned and 
shouted the explanation, he guessed at it. 
" Shadow — our own shadow," yelled Charger, 
and Billy, nodding in answer, could only curse 
himself for a fool not to have noticed (as he 
had noticed really without reasoning why) that 
the blurred, misty shape had grown smaller 
as well as sharper as they approached. "I 
didn't think of it either," Charger confessed 
after they were back on the 'drome, "and it 
scared me stiff. Looked just like a machine 
in thick cloud — blurred, sort of, and getting 
clearer as it came out to the edge." 



44 A TENDER SUBJECT 

"It was as bad as that beastly Hun," said 
Billy, "or worse"; and Charger agreed. 

Now two experiences of that sort might easily 
break any man's nerve, and most men would 
need a spell off after an episode like the collision 
one. But Charger's nerve was none the 
worse, and although Billy swore his never 
really recovered, the two of them soon after put 
through another nose-on charge at a Hun, in 
which Charger went straight as ever, and when 
the Hun zoomed up and over, Billy had kept 
his nerve enough to have his gun ready and 
to jjput a burst of bullets up and into him 
from stem to stern and send him down in 
flames. \ 

Everyone in the Mess agreed here that the 
two were good stout men and had nothing 
wrong with their nerves. 

"Not much," said the narrator, "and they're 
still goin' strong. But you remember what 
started me to tell you about them?" 

"Let's see — yes," said one or two. "We 
were talking about the joke of that couple to- 
day being so scared by a bit of fast driving on 
a clear road." 

"Right," said the other, and laughed. 
"Heaps of people out here know those two, 
and it's a standing joke that you can't hire 
them to sit on the front seat of a car or a tender 
or travel anything over fifteen miles an hour in 
anything on wheels." 

He waited a moment for some jests and 
chuckles to subside, and finished, grinning 



A TENDER SUBJECT 45 

openly. "They are the two I told you about 
— Charger Wicks and Billy Bones!" 

There was dead silence for a minute. Then, 
"Good Lord!" said one of the quartette faintly, 
and "Wh — which was Charger?" faltered 
another. "In their flying kit we couldn't " 

"The smallest — the one you called the pale- 
faced, nervy-looking little 'un," said "A" Flight 
Commander. 

"Help!" said the other weakly. "And I — I 
recommended him 'Sulphurine Pills for Shaken 
Nerves.' Oh, help!" 

"Yes," said the last of the demoralised 
quartette miserably, "and he thanked us, and 
said he'd write it down the minute he got back." 

There was another pause. Then, "Such a 
joke!" said someone, quoting from the open- 
ing chapter of the quartette's story — "such a 
joke!" And the Mess broke in a yell of up- 
roarious laughter. 

The quartette did not laugh. 



IV 

A GOOD DAY 

Half an hour before there was a hint of dawn 
in the sky the Flight was out with the machines 
lined up on the grass, the mechanics busy about 
them, the pilots giving preliminary tests and 
runs to their engines. There had been showers 
of rain during the night, welcome rain which 
had laid the dust on the roads and washed it off 
the hedges and trees — rain just sufficient to 
slake the thirst of the parched ground and 
grass, without bringing all the discomfort of 
mud and mire which as a rule comes instantly 
to mind when one speaks of "rain" at the 
Front. 

It was a summer dawn, fresh, and' cool, and 
clean, with the raindrops still gemming the 
grass and leaves, a delicious scent of moist 
earth in the balmy air, a happy chorus of chirp- 
ing, twittering birds everywhere, a "great," 
a "gorgeous," a "perfect" morning, as the 
pilots told each other. 

A beautiful Sabbath stillness, a gentle calm 
hung over the aerodrome until the machines 
were run out and the engines began to tune up. 
But even in their humming, thrumming, boom- 

46 



A GOOD DAY 47 

ing notes there was nothing harsh or discordant 
or greatly out of keeping with the air of peace 
and happiness. And neither, if one had not 
known what it was, would the long heavy 
rumble that beat down wind have wakened 
any but peaceful thoughts. It might have 
been the long lazy boom of the surf beating in 
on a sandy beach, the song of leaping water- 
falls, the distant rumble of summer thunder 
. . . except perhaps for the quicker drum-like 
roll that rose swelling every now and then 
through it, the sharper, yet dull and flat, thudding 
bumps and thumps that to any understanding 
ear marked the sound for what it was — the roar 
of the guns. 

Already the guns were hard at it; had been 
for days and nights past, in fact; would be 
harder at it than ever as the light grew on this 
summer morning, for this was the day set for 
the great battle, was within an hour or two of 
the moment marked for the attack to begin. 

The Squadron Commander was out long 
before the time detailed for the Flight to start. 
He spoke to some of the pilots, looked round, 
evidently missed someone, and was just be- 
ginning "Where is " when he caught sight 

of a figure in flying clothes hurrying out from 
the huts. The figure halted to speak to a 
pilot and the Major called impatiently, "Come 
along, boy. Waiting for you." "Right, sir," 
called the other, and then laughingly to his 
companion, "Worst of having a brother for 
CO. Always privileged to chase you." 



48 A GOOD DAY 

"Flight Leader ought to be first, Sonny, not 
last," said the Major as the boy came up. 
"Sorry, Jim," said the boy, "I'm all ready," 
and ran on to his waiting machine. 

One by one the pilots clambered aboard and 
settled themselves in their seats, and one after 
another the engines were started, sputtering 
and banging and misbehaving noisily at first 
in some cases, but quickly steadying, and, after 
a few grunts and throaty whurrumphs, picking 
up their beat, droning out the deep note that 
rises tone by tone to the full long roaring song 
of perfect power. 

The Major walked along the line, halted at 
each machine, and spoke a word or two to each 
pilot. He stood a little longer at the end 
machine until the pilot eased his engine down 
and its roar dropped droning to a quiet "tick- 
ing over." 

"All right and all ready, Sonny?" said the 
Major. 

"All correct, sir," said Sonny laughingly, 
and with a half-joking salute. "Feel fine, 
Jim, and the old bus is in perfect trim." 

"Think the rain has gone," said the Major. 
"It's going to be a fine day, I fancy." 

"It's just topping," cried Sonny, wrinkling> 
his nose and sniffing luxuriously. "Air's as 
full of sweet scent as a hay meadow at home." 

"Flight, got your orders all clear to start?" 

Sonny nodded. "Yes, we'll show you the 
usual star turn take-off all right. You watch 
us." 



A GOOD DAY 49 

The Major glanced at his wrist- watch and at 
the paling sky. "Almost time. Well, take 
care of yourself, Sonny." He put his hand up 
on the edge of the cockpit, and Sonny slid his 
glove off, and gave an affectionate little squeeze 
to the fingers that came over the edge. 

"I'll be all right, Jim, boy. We're going to 
have a good day. Wish you were coming with 
us." ' 

"Wish I were," said the Major. "Good 
luck," and he stepped and walked out in front 
of the line of machines, halted, and glanced at 
his watch and up at the sky again. 

The half-dozen machines, too, stood waiting 
and motionless, except for the answering quiver 
that ran through them to their engines' beat. 
Down from the line the throbbing roll of the 
gunfire rose louder and heavier, with a new, 
an ugly and sinister snarling note running 
through it. The flat thudding reports of the 
nearer Heavies came at quicker and closer in- 
tervals, the rumble of the further and smaller 
pieces ran up to the steady unbroken roar of 
drum-fire. 

The wind was coming from the line and the 
machines were lined up facing into it, so that 
the pilots had before them the jumping, flickering 
lights which flamed up across the sky from the 
guns' discharge. Earlier, these flashes had blazed 
up in broad sheets of yellow- and orange-tinted 
light from the horizon to half way up the height 
of the sky, leaped and sank, leaped again and 
beat throbbing and pulsing wave on wave, or 



50 A GOOD DAY 

flickering and quivering jerkily for seconds on 
end, dying down, and immediately flaring up 
in wide sheet-lightning glows. Now, in the 
growing light the gun-flashes showed more and 
more faintly, in sickly pallid flashes. There 
was no halt or pause between the jumping 
lights now; they trembled and flickered un- 
ceasingly, with every now and then a broader, 
brighter glare wiping out the lesser lights. 

The pilots sat watching the battle lights, 
listening to the shaking battle thunder, and 
waiting the Squadron Commander's signal to 
go. The birds were chattering happily and 
noisily, and a lark climbed, pouring out long 
shrill bursts of joyful song; somewhere over 
in the farmyard beside the 'drome a cock crowed 
shrilly, and from one of the workshops came 
the cheerful clink-link, clink-link of hammers 
on an anvil. 

It was all very happy and peaceful — except 
for the jumping gun-flashes and rolling gun-fire; 
life was very sweet and pleasant — unless one 
thought of life over there in the trenches, and 
what the next hour or two would bring. Every- 
one knew there was "dirty work" ahead. It 
was the first really big "show" the Squadron 
had been in; they had been in plenty of the 
ordinary O.P.'s (Offensive Patrols) and air- 
scraps, but this was the real big thing, a great 
battle on the ground, and a planned attack on 
the grand scale in the air, which was to sweep 
the sky of Huns . . . and the gunfire was still 
growing . . . and the lark up there was burst- 



A GOOD DAY 51 

ing his throat to tell them what a pleasant 
place the world was on this summer morning, 
with the raindrops fresh on the grass and the 
breeze cool in the trees. 

Nearly time! The Flight Leader ran his 
engine up again, its humming drone rising to a 
full deep-chested roar. The other pilots followed 
suit, engine after engine picking up the chorus 
and filling the air with deafening and yet har- 
monious sound. A man stood just clear of the 
wing-tips to either side of each machine holding 
a cord fast to the wood blocks chocked under 
the wheels; another man or two clung to each 
tail, holding it down against the pull of the 
propeller, their sleeves, jacket tails, and trouser 
legs fluttering wildly in the gales which poured 
aft from the whirling screws and sent twigs 
and leaves and dust flying and dancing back 
in a rushing stream. So the pilots sat for 
a minute, their faces intent and earnest, lis- 
tening to the hum and beat of their engines 
and note of their propellers' roar, watching the 
Flight Leader's movements out of the tail of 
their eyes. He eased his engine down; and 
promptly every other engine eased. He waved 
his hand to right and left, and the waiting men 
jerked the chocks clear of his wheels; and five 
other hands waved and five other pairs of 
chocks jerked clear. He moved forward, swung 
to the right with a man to each wing tip to help 
swing him, and rolled steadily out into the 
pen; and five other machines moved forward, 
swung right, and followed in line astern of him. 



52 A GOOD DAY 

He wheeled to the left, moved more quickly, 
opened his engine up, ran forward at gathering 
speed. Moving slowly his machine had looked 
like a lumbering big fat beetle; skimming rapidly 
across the grass, with its nose down and its tail 
up, it changed to an excited hen racing with 
outstretched head and spread wings; then — a 
lift — an upward "swoop and rush — and she 
was ... a swallow, an eagle, a soaring gull — 
any of these you like as symbols of speed and 
power and grace, but best symbol of all perhaps, 
just herself, for what she was — a clean-built, 
stream-lined, hundred-and-umpty horse, fast, 
fighting-scout aeroplane. 

The Squadron Commander stood watching 
the take-off of the Flight with a thrill of pride, 
and truly it was a sight to gladden the heart 
of any enthusiast. As the Flight Leader's 
machine tucked up her tail and raced to pick 
up speed, the second machine had followed 
her round her curve, steadied, and began to 
move forward, gathering way in her very wheel- 
tracks. As the Leader hoicked up and away, 
the second machine was picking up her skirts 
and making her starting rush; and the third 
machine was steadying round the turn to fol- 
low. As the second left the ground, the third 
began to make her run, and the fourth was 
round the turn and ready to follow. So they 
followed, machine by machine, evenly spaced in 
distance apart, running each other's tracks 
down, leaping off within yards of the same 
point, each following the other into the air as 



A GOOD DAY 53 

if they were tied on lengths of a string. It was 
a perfect exhibition of Flight Leadership — and 
following. One turn round the 'drome they 
made, and the Flight was in perfect formation 
and sailing off to the east, climbing as it went. 
The Commander stood and watched them gain 
their height in one more wide sweeping turn 
and head due east, then moved towards the 
huts. 

The hammers were still beating out their 
cheery clink-link, the birds chirping and twitter- 
ing; the lark, silenced or driven from the sky 
by these strange monster invaders, took up 
his song again and shrilled out to all the world 
that it was a joy to live — to live — to live — this 
perfect summer morning. 

And the guns replied in sullen rolling thunder. 

The last red glow of sunset was fading out 
of the square of sky seen through the open 
Squadron-office window. The Major sat in his 
own place at the centre of the table, and his 
Colonel, with the dust of motor travel still 
thick on his cap and coat, sat by the empty 
fire-place listening and saying nothing. A young 
lad, with leather coat thrown open and leather 
helmet pushed back on his head, stood by the 
table and spoke rapidly and eagerly. He was 
one of the Patrol that had left at dawn, had made 
a forced landing, had only just reached the 
'drome, and had come straight to the office 
to report and tell his tale. 

"I have the Combat Report, of course," said 



54 A GOOD DAY 

the Major; "ymi might read it first — and I've 
some other details; but I'd like to know any- 
thing further you can tell." 

The lad read the Report, a bare dozen lines, 
of which two and a half told the full tale of a 
brave man's death — "as he went down out 
of control he signalled to break off the fight and 
return, and then for the Deputy to take command. 
He was seen to crash.' " 

"That's true, sir," said the lad, "but d'you 
know — d'you see what it — all it meant? We'd 
been scrappin' half an hour. We were on our 
last rounds and our last pints of petrol . . . 
against seventeen Huns, and we'd crashed 
four and put three down out of control . . . 
they were beat, and we knew it, and meant to 
chase 'em off." 

He had been speaking rapidly, almost inco- 
herently, but now he steadied himself and spoke 
carefully. 

"Then he saw their reinforcements comin' 
up, one lot from north, t'other from south. 
They'd have cut us off. We were too busy 
scrappin' to watch. They had us cold, with us 
on our last rounds and nearly out of petrol. 
But he saw them. He was shot down then — I 
dunno whether it was before or after it that he 
saw them; but he was goin' down right out of 
control — dead-leafing, then a spin, then leafing 

again. And he signalled " The boy gulped, 

caught and steadied his voice again, and went 
on quietly. "You know; there's half a dozen 
coloured lights stuck in the dash-board in front 



A GOOD DAY 55 

of him — and his Verey pistol in the rack be- 
side him. He picked out the proper coloured 
light — goin' down helplessly out of control — 
and took his pistol out of the rack . . . and 
loaded it . . . and put it over the side and 
fired his signal, 'Get back to the 'drome — 
return home/ whatever it is exactly — we all 
knew it meant to break off the scrap and clear 
out, anyway. But he wasn't done yet. He 
picked another light — the proper coloured light 
again . . . and still knowin' he'd crash in the 
next few seconds . . . and loaded and fired, 
'I am out of action. Deputy Flight Leader 
carry on.' . . . Then ... he crashed. ..." 

The boy gulped again and stopped, and for a 
space there was dead silence. 

" Thank you," said the Squadron Commander 
at last, very quietly, "I won't ask you for more 
now." 

The boy saluted and turned, but the Major 
spoke again. " There's a message here I've 
just had. You might like to read it." 

The pilot took it and read a message of con- 
gratulations and thanks from Headquarters on 
the work of the Air Services that day, saying 
how the Huns had been driven out of the air, 
how so many of them had been crashed, so many 
driven down out of control, with slight losses 
of so many machines to us. "On all the fronts 
engaged," the message finished, "the Squadrons 
have done well, and the Corps has had a good 
day." 

"A good day," said the boy bitterly, and 



56 A GOOD DAY 

spat a gust of oaths. "I — pardon, sir," he said, 
catching the Major's eye and the Colonel's quick 
glance. "But — Sonny was my pal; I was his 

chum, the best chum he had " He checked 

himself again, and after a pause, "No, sir," he 
said humbly, "I beg your pardon. You were 
always that to Sonny." He saluted again, very 
gravely and exactly, turned, and went. 

The Colonel rose. "It's true, too," said the 
Major, "I was; and he was the dearest chum 
to me. I fathered him since he was ten, when 
our Pater died. I taught him to fly — took him up 
dual myself, and I remember he was quick as a 
monkey in learning. I watched his first solo, 
with my heart in my mouth; and I had ten 
times the pride he had himself when he put his 
first wings up. And now . . . he's gone." 

"He saved his Flight," said the Colonel 
softly. "You heard. It's him and his like 
that make the Corps what it is. They show 
the way, and the others carry on. They go 
down, but" — he tapped his finger slowly on the 
message lying on the table, "but . . : the Corps 
'has had A Good Day.'" 



(To the tune of "John Brown's Body.") 

Half the Flight may crash to-day and t'other half to-night, 
But the Flight does dawn patrol, before to-morrow's light, 
And if we live or if we die, the Corps still wins the fight, 
4nd the war goes rolling on. 



A ROTTEN FORMATION 

The Major lifted his head from the pile of papers 
he was reading and signing, and listened to the 
hum of an engine passing over the office and 
circling down to the 'drome. "One of ours," 
he said. "Flight coming down, I suppose. 
They're rather late." 

An officer lounging on a blanket-covered 
truckle bed murmured something in reply and 
returned to the sixpenny magazine he was de- 
vouring. The noise of the engine droned down 
to the ground level, ceased, stuttered, and rose, 
sank again, and finally stopped. The CO. 
hurried on with his papers, knowing the pilots 
of the Flight would be in presently to make their 
reports. 

In three minutes the door banged open 
noisily, and the Flight Leader clumped heavily 
in. Such of his features as could be seen for a 
leather helmet coming low on his forehead and 
close round his cheeks, and a deep collar turned 
up about his chin, disclosed an expression of bad 
temper and dissatisfaction. 

"Hullo, Blanky," said the Major cheer- 
fully. "Made rather a long job of it, didn't 
you? Any Huns about? " 

57 



58 A ROTTEN FORMATION 

Now Blanky had an established and well- 
deserved reputation for bad language, and 
although usually a pilot is expected more or less 
to modify any pronounced features in language 
in addressing his CO., there are times when 
he fails to do so, and times when the CO. wisely 
ignores the failure. This apparently was one 
of the times, and the Major listened without 
remark to a stream of angry and sulphurous 
revilings of the luck, the Huns, the fight the 
Flight had just come through, and finally — or one 
might say firstly, at intervals throughout, and 
finally — the Flight itself. 

"Three blessed quarters of a bloomin' hour 
we were scrappin'," said Blanky savagely, 
"and I suppose half the blistering machines in 
the blinking Flight are shot up to everlastin' 
glory. I know half the flamin' controls and 
flyin' wires are blanky well cut on my goldarn 
bus. And two confounded Huns' brimstone 
near got me, because the cock-eyed idiot who 
should have been watching my plurry tail went 
harein' off to heaven and the Hot Place. But 
no-dash-body watched any-darn-body's tail. 
Went split-armin' around the ruddy sky like 
a lot of runaway racin' million-horse-power 
comets. Flight! Dot, dash, asterisk! For- 
mation! Stars, stripes, and spangles " 

He broke off with a gesture of despair and 
disgust. None of this harangue was very in- 
forming, except it made clear that the Flight had 
been in a fight, and that Blanky was not 
pleased with the result or the Flight. The Major 



A ROTTEN FORMATION 59 

questioned gently for further details, but hearing 
the note of another descending engine Blanky 
went off at a tangent again. Here one of them 
came . . . about half an hour after him . . . wait 
till he saw them . . . he'd tell them all about it 
. . . and so on. 

"Did you down any Huns?" asked the 
Major, and Blanky told him No, not one sin- 
gle, solitary, stream-line Hun crashed, and 
couldn't even swear to any out of control. Before 
the Major could say more, the office door opened 
to admit a leather-clad pilot grinning cheerfully 
all over his face. Blanky whirled and burst 
out on him, calling him this, that, and the other, 
demanding to know what the, where the, why 
the, advising him to go'n learn to drive a beastly 
wheel-barrow, and buy a toy gun with a cork 
on a string to shoot with. The bewildered pilot 
strove to make some explanation, to get a word 
in edgeways, but he hadn't a hope until Blanky 
paused for breath. "I didn't break formation 

for more'n a minute " he began, when 

Blanky interrupted explosively, " Break for- 
mation — no, 'cos there wasn't a frescoed for- 
mation left to break. It had gone to gilt- 
edged glory, and never came back. But I was 
there, and your purple place was behind me. 
Why the which did you leave there?" 

"Because I'd winged the Hun that was sitting 
on your tail," said the other indignantly. "I 
had to go after him to get him." 

"Get him," said Blanky contemptuously. 
"Well, why didn't you?" 



60 A ROTTEN FORMATION 

"I did," said the pilot complacently. At that 
Blanky broke loose and cried aloud for the 
wrath to descend and annihilate any man who 
could stand there and deliberately murder the 
truth. "But I did get him. I watched him 
crash right enough," retorted the maligned one. 
Blanky was still yelling at him, when in came 
another couple talking eagerly and also with 
faces wreathed in smiles, and evidently well 
pleased with the world. " Hullo, Blanky," said 
the first. " Pretty good show, eh?" 

Blanky wheeled and stared at him as if 
in dumb amazement. "Blanky doesn't think 
so," said the Major softly. "He's complaining a 
good deal that your formation wasn't very good." 

"Good, Major," exploded Blanky again. 
"It was worse than very beastly bad. I never 
adverbed saw such an adjectived rank bad 
formation. It was a rotten formation. And 
then Billie tells me — has the crimson cheek to 
say he crashed a constellation Hun." 

"Ask Tom there," said Billie. "Tom, didn't 
you see me put one down?" 

Tom couldn't be sure. He'd been too busy 
with a Hun himself. He and the Diver had one 
fellow between them, and both shootin' like stink 
at him, and were watching after to see if he 
crashed 

"Crashed," burst in Blanky. "My sainted 
sacred aunt. Another fellow walking in his sleep 
and killing criss-cross Huns in his dithering 
dreams. Any imagining more of you get a 
fabulous freak Hun? " 



A ROTTEN FORMATION 61 

The Diver said mildly, "Yes," he'd got one — 
not counting the one between him and Tom, 
which might have been either's. Blanky was 
beginning again, when the Major stopped him. 
"This is getting too complicated," he said. 
"Let's get the lot together — observers and 
all — and see if we can make anything of this 
business." 

A babble of voices was heard outside, the door 
banged open, and in jostled another batch of 
pilots and observers talking at the pitch of their 
voices, laughing, shouting questioning, answer- 
ing, trampling their heavy flying boots noisily 
on the bare wood floor, turning the little office 
hut into a regular bear-garden. Their leather 
coats were unbuttoned and flapping, their long 
boots hung wrinkled about their knees or were 
pulled thigh-high, scarves swathed their throats 
or dangled down their chests, enormous furry 
gauntletted gloves hid their hands. Some still 
wore their leather helmets with goggles pushed 
up over their foreheads; others had taken them 
off, and looked like some strange pantomime 
monsters with funnily disproportionate faces 
and heads emerging from the huge leather collars. 
For minutes the room was a hopeless bedlam of 
noise. Everyone talked at once: all, slightly 
deaf perhaps from the long-endured roar of the 
engines, and rush of the wind, talked their loud- 
est. They compared notes of flashing incidents 
seen for a fraction of a second in the fighting, tried 
to piece together each others' seeings and doings, 
told what had happened to them and their 



62 A ROTTEN FORMATION 

engines and machines, asked questions, and, 
without waiting for an answer, asked another, or 
answered somebody else's. 

The voice of Blanky haranguing some of 
' the last-comers, calling down curses on their 
misdeeds, rose through any break in the hubbub. 
The Major sat for some minutes listening to the 
uproar, catching beginnings and middles and 
loose ends of sentences here and there from one 
or another: "Gave him a good half drum." . . . 
"Shot away my left aileron control." . . . 
"Went hareing off over Hunland at his hardest," 
. . . "Pulled everything in sight and pushed the 
others, but couldn't get her straightened." . . . 
"A two-inch tear in my radiator, an' spoutin' 
steam like an old steam laundry." . . . And then 
the voice of Blanky spitting oaths and "It 
was the rottenest formation I ever saw, abso- 
blanky-lutely rotten." His sentence was swamped 
again in the flood of talk and fragments of 
sentences. "Then it jammed — number three 
stoppage and" . . . "yellin' myself black in the 
face, but couldn't make him hear." ... "I hate 
those filthy explosive bullets of theirs." . . . 
"Chucked her into a spin." . . . "Missing every 
other stroke, fizzing and spitting like a crazy Tom 
cat." ... "I ask you now, I ask you what could 
I do?" . . . "Down flamin' like a disembowelled 
volcano." 

The Major called, called again, raised his 
voice and shouted, and gradually the noise died 
down. 

"Now, let's get to business," he said. "I 



A ROTTEN FORMATION 63 

want to know what happened. Blanky, let's 
hear you first." 

Blanky told his story briefly. The for- 
mation of six machines had run into twenty-two 
Huns — four two-seaters, the rest fighting scouts 
— and had promptly closed with and engaged 
them. Blanky here threw in a few brief but 
pungent criticisms on the Flight's behaviour and 
" rotten formation" during the fight, mentioned 
baldly that they had scrapped for about three- 
quarters of an hour, and although there were 
certainly fewer Huns in at the finish than had 
begun, none, so far as he knew, had been crashed. 
All the Flight had returned, mostly with a good 
few minor damages to machines, but no casual- 
ties to men. 

"Now," said the Major, "some of you claim 
Huns crashed, don't you? Let 'em alone, 
Blanky, to tell their own yarns." 

The first pilot told of running fights, said he 
had sent at least one down out of control, and 
saw one crash. His observer corroborated the 
account; Blanky pooh-poohed it scornfully. 
He contradicted flatly and hotly another pilot 
who said he had crashed his Hun, and in 
the middle of the argument the last pilot 
came in. 

"Here's Dicky. Ask him. He was close up, 
and saw me get 'im," said the denied victor. 

"Dicky," cried Blanky, "I've been wait- 
ing for — here, you cock-eyed quirk, what in the 
Hot Place did you mean by bargin' across the 
nose of my bus when I'd just got a sanguinary 



64 A ROTTEN FORMATION 

Hun in my ensanguined sights. You blind, 
blithering no-good. ..." 

"What's that, Blanky? What d'you say? 
remarked Dicky cheerfully. "Wait a bit. My 
ears ..." He gripped his nose and violently 
"blew through his ears" to remove the deaf- 
ness that comes to a man who has descended too 
quickly from a height. "Didn't you see me get 
that Hun, Dicky?" demanded the Diver. 
"Why didn't you keep formation? Served you 
something well otherthing right if I'd shot you, 
blinding across under my gory prop. ..." 

Dicky gripped his nose and blew again. 
"Wait a minute — can't hear right. ..." 

The talk was boiling up all round them 
again, in claims of a kill, counter-claims, corrob- 
orations, and denials, and the Major sat back 
and let it run for a bit. Blanky, the Diver, 
and Dicky held a three-cornered duel, Blanky 
strafing wildly, the Diver demanding evidence of 
his kill and Dicky holding his nose and blowing, 
and returning utterly misfitting answers to both. 
He caught a word of Blanky's tirade at last, 
something about "silly yahoo bashing around," 
misinterpreted it evidently, and, still holding his 
nose, grinned cheerfully and nodded. "Did 
I crash a Hun?" he said. "Sure thing I did. 
Put 'im down in flames." 

The Diver leaned close and yelled in Dicky's 
ear: "Didn't I crash — one — too?" Dicky 
blew again. "No, I didn't crash two," he said. 
"Only one, I saw, though there was another 
blighter " 



A ROTTEN FORMATION 85 

Blanky turned disgustedly to the Major. 
" They're crazy," he said. "I know I didn't 
see one single unholy Hun crashed in the whole 
sinful show. 

"Between them they claim five," said the 
Major, "and you say none. What about your- 
self? Didn't you get any?" 

"No," said Blanky shortly. "One or two 
down out of control, but I didn't watch 'em, 
and they probably straightened out lower down." 
(Blanky, it may be mentioned, has a record 
of never having claimed a single Hun crashed, 
but is credited, nevertheless, with a round dozen 
from entirely outside evidence.) 

The Major spent another noisy three minutes 
trying to sift the tangled evidence and claims 
of crashes, then gave it up. "Write your re- 
ports," he said, "and we'll have to wait and see 
if any confirmation comes in of any crashes. You 
were near enough to the line for crashes to be 
seen, weren't you?" 

"Near enough?" said Blanky. "Too dis- 
gustingly near. I suppose anyone that knows a 
bus from a banana would recognise the make of 
ours, and I'm rank ashamed to imagine what 
the whole blinking line must have thought of the 
Squadron and the paralysed performance." 

The bir-r-r of the telephone bell cut sharply 
through the noisy talk, and the Major shouted 
for silence. He got it at last, and the room 
listened to the one-sided conversation that fol- 
lowed. Some of the men continued their talk 
in whispers, Blanky fumbled out and lit a 



66 A ROTTEN FORMATION 

cigarette, Dicky dropped on the bed beside the 
man with the book, who, through all the uproar, 
had kept his eyes glued to the magazine pages. 
"What you got there?" asked Dicky conver- 
sationally. "Any good?" 

"Good enough for me to want to read," 
snapped the other. "But a man couldn't read 
in this row if he was stone deaf." 

"Well, y'see, they're all a bit bucked with the 
scrap," said Dicky apologetically. 

"Oh, bust the scrap," said the reader. "I'm 
sick of scraps and Huns. Do dry up and let 
me read," and he buried himself again in the 
fiction that to him at least was stranger than the 
naked truth that rioted about his unheeding ears. 

The Major's end of the talk consisted at first 
of "Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . oh, yes," and then, 
more intelligibly, "Yes, pretty good scrap 
evidently. . . . No, they're all back, thanks. . . . 
Thanks, I'm glad you think — what? . . . Are you 
sure? . . . Quite sure? Good. There's been 
rather an argument. . . . Six? Quite certain? 
. . . Thanks very much. ... I suppose you'll send 
a report confirming . . . Right. Thanks. . . . 
Good-bye." 

He put the receiver down on the stand and 
turned to Blanky with a smile twitching his 
lips. "Our Archies," he explained, "rang up to 

tell me they'd watched the whole show " 

"Pretty sight, too," growled Blanky. The 
Major went on: "and to congratulate the 
Squadron on a first-class fight. And they posi- 
tively confirm six crashes, Blanky; saw them 



A ROTTEN FORMATION 67 

hit the ground and smash. Some others seen 
low down out of control, and could hardly 
recover, but weren't seen actually to crash. So 
we only get six — and as the others only claim 
five, you must have got yours after all." 

" Course he got it," struck in Blanky's 
observer; "only I knew he'd argue me down if 



"Oh, shut up," said Blanky. "How could 
you see? You were looking over the tail, any- 
way." 

"Well, I knew I got mine," said Dicky. 

"Me, too" . . . "And I was sure " . . . "And 

I saw mine." jfr ■ 

"For the love of Christmas, dry up," stormed 
Blanky. "If you could only fly as well as 
you can talk, you might make a half-baked 
blistering Flight. As it is you're more like a fat- 
headed flock o' incarnadined crows split-armin' 
over a furrow in a ploughed field. Of all the 
dazzling dud formations I ever saw " 

"Never mind, Blanky," said the Major. 
"You got six confirmed crashes amongst you, 
so it wasn't too dud a show." 

"I don't care," said Blanky, tramping to 
the door and jerking it open. "I don't care a 
tuppenny tinker's dash what Huns we got." He 
swung through, and, turning in the doorway 
with his hand on the knob, shouted back with 
all the emphasis of last- word finality: "I tell 
you it was a rotten formation, anyway." 

Behind him the door slammed tremendously. 



VI 

QUICK WORK 

It is difficult, if not indeed impossible, to convey- 
in words what is perhaps the most breath- 
catching wonder of air-fighting work, the furious 
speed, the whirling rush, the sheer rapidity of 
movement of the fighting machines, and the 
incredible quickness of a pilot's brain, hand, and 
eye to handle and manoeuvre a machine, and 
aim and shoot a gun under these speed con- 
ditions. I can only ask you to try to remember 
that a modern fast scout is capable of flying at 
well over a hundred miles an hour on the level, 
and at double that (one may not be too exact) 
in certain circumstances, and that in such a 
fight as I am going to try to describe here the 
machines were moving at anything between these 
speeds. If you can bear this in mind, or even 
realise it — I am speaking to the non-flying reader 
— you will begin to understand what air men-o-' 
war work is, to believe what a pilot once said 
of air fighting: "You don't get time to think. 
If you stop to think, you're dead." 

When the Flight of half a dozen scout machines 
was getting ready to start on the usual " offensive 

68 



QUICK WORK 69 

patrol" over Hunland, one of the pilots, "Ricky- 
Ticky" by popular name, had some slight 
trouble with his engine. It was nothing much, a 
mere reluctance to start up easily, and since he 
did get her going before the Flight was ready 
to take off he naturally went up with it. He 
had a little more trouble in the upward climb to 
gain a height sufficient for the patrol when it 
crossed the line to stand the usual respectable 
chance of successfully dodging the usual Archie 
shells. Ricky, however, managed to nurse her 
up well enough to keep his place in the for- 
mation, and was still in place when they started 
across the lines. Before they were far over 
Hunland he knew that his engine was missing 
again occasionally and was not pulling as she 
ought to, and from a glance at his indicators and 
a figuring of speed, height, and engine revolutions 
was fairly certain that he was going almost 
full out to keep up with the other machines, 
which were flying easily and well within their 
speed. 

This was where he would perhaps have been 
wise to have thrown up and returned to his 
'drome. He hung on in the hope that the 
engine would pick up again — as engines have an 
unaccountable way of doing — and even when he 
found himself dropping back out of place in the 
formation he still stuck to it and followed on. 
He knew the risk of this, knew that the straggler, 
the lame duck, the unsupported machine, is just 
exactly what the Hun flyer is always on the 
look out for; knew, too, that his Flight Com- 



.70 QUICK WORK 

mander before they had started had warned him 
(seeing the trouble he was having to start up) 
that if he had any bother in the air or could not 
keep place in the formation to pull out and 
return. Altogether, then, the trouble that 
swooped down on him was his own fault, and you 
can blame him for it if you like. But if you do 
you'll have to blame a good many other pilots 
who carry on, and, in spite of the risk, do their 
best to put through the job' they are on. He 
finally decided — he looked at the clock fixed in 
front of him to set a time and found it showed 
just over one minute to twelve — in one minute 
atfnoon exactly, if his engine had not steadied 
down to work, he would turn back for home. 

At that precise moment — and this was the first 
warning he had that there were Huns about — 
he heard a ferocious rattle of machine-gun fire, 
and got a glimpse of streaking flame and smoke 
from the tracer bullets whipping past him. The 
Huns, three of them and all fast fighting scouts, 
had seen him coming, had probably watched him 
drop back out of place in the Flight, had kept 
carefully between him and the sun so that his 
glances round and back had failed to spot them 
in the glare, and had then dived headlong on 
him, firing as they came. They were coming 
down on him from astern and on his right side, 
or, as the Navals would put it, on his starboard 
quarter, and they were perhaps a hundred to a 
hundred and fifty yards off when Ricky first 
looked round and saw them. 

His first and most natural impulse was to get 



QUICK WORK 71 

clear of the bullets that were spitting round and 
over him, and in two swift motions he had opened 
his engine full out and thrust his nose a little 
down and was off full pelt. Promptly the three 
astern swung a little, opened out as they wheeled, 
dropped their noses, and came after Ricky, still 
a little above him, and so fairly astern that only 
the centre one could keep a sustained accurate 
fire on him. (A scout's gun being fixed and 
shooting between the blades of the propeller — 
gun and engine being synchronised so as to 
allow the bullet to pass out as the blade is clear 
of the muzzle — means that the machine itself 
must be aimed at the target for the bullets to 
hit, and the two outer machines of the three 
could only so aim their machines by pointing 
their noses to converge on the centre one — a 
risky manoeuvre with machines travelling at 
somewhere about a hundred miles an hour.) 

But the fire of that centre one was too horribly 
close for endurance, and Ricky knew that 
although his being end-on made him the smaller 
target, it also made his machine the more vul- 
nerable to a raking shot which, piercing him 
fore and aft, could not well fail to hit petrol 
tank, or engine, or some other vital spot. He 
could do nothing in the way of shooting back, 
because, being a single-seater scout himself, his 
two guns were trained one to shoot straight for- 
ward through the propeller, the other, mounted 
on the top plane on a curved mount which 
allowed the gun to be grasped by the handle 
above his head and pulled back and down, to 



72 QUICK WORK 

shoot from direct ahead to straight up. Neither 
could shoot backward. 

Ricky, the first shock of his surprise over, 
had gauged the situation, and this, it must be 
admitted, was dangerous, if not desperate. He 
had dropped back and back from the Flight, 
until now they were something like a mile ahead 
of him. A mile, it is true, does not take a modern 
machine long to cover, but then, on the other 
hand, neither does an air battle take long to 
fight, especially with odds of three to one. With 
those bullets sheeting past him and already be- 
ginning to rip and crack through his wings, any 
second might see the end of Ricky. It was no 
use thinking longer of running away, and even 
a straight-down nose-dive offered no chance of 
escape, both because the Huns could nose-dive 
after him and continue to keep him under fire, 
and because he was well over Hunland, and the 
nearer he went to the ground the better target 
he would make for the anti-aircraft gunners 
below. He must act, and act quickly. 

A thousand feet down and a quarter of a 
mile away was a little patch of cloud. Ricky 
swerved, dipped, and drove "all out" for it. 
He was into it — 400 yards remember — in about 
the time it takes you to draw three level 
quiet breaths, and had flashed through it — 
five or six hundred feet across it might have 
been — in a couple of quick heart-beats. The 
Huns followed close, and in that half-dozen 
seconds Ricky had something between fifty and 
a hundred bullets whizzing and ripping past and 



QUICK WORK 73 

through his wings. As he leaped clear of the 
streaming wisps of the cloud's edge he threw one 
look behind him and pulled the joy-stick hard 
in to his stomach. Instantly his machine reared 
and swooped up in the loop he had decided on, 
up and over and round. At the first upward 
zoom Ricky had pulled down the handle of his 
top gun and brought it into instant action. The 
result was that as he shot up and over in a perfect 
loop the centre machine, which had been astern 
of him, flashed under and straight through the 
stream of his bullets. 

Ricky whirled down in the curve of his loop 
with his gun still shooting, but, now he had 
finished his loop and flattened out, shooting up 
into the empty air while his enemy hurtled 
straight on and slightly downward ahead of him. 
Instantly Ricky threw his top gun out of action, 
and, having now reversed positions, and having 
his enemy ahead, steadied his machine to 
bring his bow gun sights to bear on her. But 
before he could fire he saw the hostile's right 
upper plane twist upward, saw the machine spin 
side on, the top plane rip and flare fiercely back 
and upward, the lower plane buckle and break, 
and the machine, turning over and over, plunge 
down and out of his sight. One of his bullets 
evidently had cut some bracing wires or stays, 
and the wing had given to the strain upon it. 

So much Ricky just had time to think, but 
immediately found himself in a fresh danger. 
The two remaining hostiles had flashed past him 
at the same time as the centre one, while he 



74 QUICK WORK 

threw his loop over it, but, realising apparently 
on the instant what his manoeuvre was, they 
both swung out and round while he passed in 
his loop over the centre machine. It was smart 
work on the part of the two flanking hostiles. 
They must have instantly divined Ricky's dodge 
to get astern of them all, and their immediate 
circle out and round counteracted it, and as he 
came out of his loop brought them circling in 
again on him. For an instant Ricky was so 
concentrated on the centre machine that he 
forgot the two others; but, the centre one 
down and out, he was suddenly roused to the 
fresh danger by two following short bursts 
of fire which flashed and flamed athwart him, 
and caught a glimpse of the other two closing 
in again astern of him and "sitting on his 
tail." 

Both were firing as the} r came, and again 
Ricky felt the sharp rip and crack of explosive 
bullets striking somewhere on his machine, and 
an instant later knew the two were following 
him and hailing lead upon him. He cursed 
savagely. He had downed one enemy, but here 
apparently he was little if any better off with 
two intact enemies in the worst possible position 
for him, "on his tail," and both shooting their 
hardest. 

A quick glance ahead showed him the white 
glint of light on the wheeling wings of his Flight, 
attracted by the sight of his battle, circling 
and racing to join the fight. Rut, fast and all 
as they came, the fight was likely to be over 



QUICK WORK 75 

before they could arrive, and with the crack and 
snap of bullets about him and his own two guns 
powerless to bear on the enemy, it looked un- 
comfortably like odds on the fight ending against 
him. Another loop they would expect and 
follow over — and the bullets were crippling him 
every instant. 

Savagely he threw his controls over, and his 
machine slashed out and down to the right in 
a slicing two-hundred-foot side-slip. The right- 
hand machine whirled past him so close that he 
saw every detail of the pilot's dress — the fur- 
fringed helmet, dark goggles, black sweater. 
He caught his machine out of her downward 
slide, drove her ahead, steadied her, and brought 
his sights to bear on the enemy a scant twenty 
yards ahead, and poured a long burst of fire into 
her. He saw the streaking flashes of his bullets 
pouring about and over her top planes, dipped 
his muzzle a shade, and saw the bullets break 
and play on and about the pilot and fuselage. 
Then came a leaping flame and a spurt of black 
smoke whirling out from her; Ricky had a 
momentary glimpse of the pilot's agonised 
expression as he lifted and glanced wildly 
round, and next instant had only in his sight 
a trailing black plume of smoke and the gleam 
of a white underbody as the enemy nose-dived 
down in a last desperate attempt to make a 
landing before his machine dissolved in flames 
about him. 

With a sudden burst of exultation Ricky 
realised his changed position. A minute before 



.76 QUICK WORK 

he was in the last and utmost desperate straits, 
three fast and well-armed adversaries against 
his single hand. Now, with two down, it was 
man to man — no, if he wished, it was all over, 
because the third hostile had swung left, had her 
nose down, and was "hare-ing" for home and 
down towards the covering fire of the German 
anti-aircraft batteries. Already she was two 
to three hundred yards away, and the first Ger- 
man Archie soared up and burst with a rending 
"Ar-r-rgh" well astern of him. 

But Ricky's blood was up and singing songs 
of triumph in his ears. Two out of three 
downed; better make a clean job of it and bag 
the lot. His nose dipped and his tail flicked up, 
and he went roaring down, full out, after his 
last Hun. A rapid crackle of one machine-gun 
after another struck his ear before ever he had 
the last hostile fully centred in his sights. Ricky 
knew that at last the Flight had arrived and were 
joining in the fight. But he paid no heed to 
them; his enemy was in the ring of his sight 
now, so with his machine hurling down at the 
limit of speed of a falling body plus all the pull 
of a hundred and odd horse-power, the whole 
fabric quivering and vibrating under him, 
the wind roaring past and in his ears, Ricky 
snuggled closer in his seat, waited till his target 
was fully and exactly centred in his sights, and 
poured in a long, clattering burst of fire. The 
hostile's slanting nose-dive swerved into a spin, 
an uncontrolled side-to-side plunge, back again 
into a spinning dive that ended in a straight- 



QUICK WORK 77 

downward rush and a crash end-on into the 
ground. 

Whether it was Ricky or some other machine of 
the Flight that got this last hostile will never be 
known. Ricky himself officially reported having 
crashed two, but declined to claim the third as 
his. On the other hand, the rest of the Flight, 
after and always, with enthusiastic unanimity, 
insisted that she was Ricky's very own, that he 
had outplayed, outfought, and killed three 
Huns in single combat with them — one down 
and t'other come on. If Ricky himself could 
not fairly and honestly claim all rights to the 
last Hun, the Flight did for him. 

" TforeeV they said vociferously in mess that 
night, and would brook no modest doubts 
from him. And to silence all doubts the Squad- 
ron poet composed a song which was sung by the 
mess with a fervour and a generous slurring over 
of faulty metre (a word the poet didn't even 
know the meaning of) that might have stirred the 
blood of a conscientious objector. It was entitled, 
" Three Huns Sat on his Tail," and was sung to 
the tune of " There were Three Crows Sat on a 
Tree," or, as the uninitiated may prefer, "When 
Johnny Comes Marching Home," and it detailed 
the destruction of the Huns one by one, verse by 
verse. 

When I tell you it was sung chanty fashion, 
with the first, second, and last lines chorused 
by the mess, I can leave you to imagine the loud- 
pedal, full, fortissimo effect of the "Hurrahs," 
and (helped out with feet, with fists, spoons, 



78 QUICK WORK 

and anything else handy to resound upon the 
table) of the final rolling "Cr-r-r-ash." 

There were three Huns sat on his tail, 

Hurrah, hurrah! 
But he looped over one and gave him "Hail 

Colum-bi-a!" 
He shot up the Hun so full of lead 
That before he knew he was hit he was dead, 
And our Archie look-out reporting said: 

One!— CR-R-R-ASH! 

But all this was later, and is going a little 
ahead of the story. As the last Hun went reeling 
down, Ricky, in the official language of the 
combat reports, " rejoined formation and con- 
tinued the patrol." He pulled the stick towards 
him and rose buoyantly, knowing that he was 
holed over and over again, that bullets, and 
explosive bullets at that, had ripped and rent 
and torn the fabrics of his machine, possibly had 
cut away some strut or stay or part of the frame. 
But his engine appeared to be all right again, 
had never misbehaved a moment during the 
fight, was running now full power and blast; 
his planes swept smooth and steady along the 
wind levels, his controls answered exactly to his 
tender questioning touch. He had won out. He 
was safe, barring accident, to land back in his 
own 'drome; and there were two if not three 
Huns down on his brazen own within the last 
— how long? 

At the moment of his upward zoom on the 
conclusion of the fight he glanced at his clock, 
could hardly believe what it told him, was only 



QUICK WORK 79 

convinced when he recalled that promise to 
himself to turn back at the end of that minute, 
and had his belief confirmed by the Flight's 
count of the time between their first turning back 
and their covering the distance to join him. His 
clock marked exactly noon. The whole fight, 
from the firing of the first shot to the falling away 
of the last Hun, had taken bare seconds over the 
one minute. 

That pilot was right; in air fighting "you 
don't get time to think." 



Quick is the word and quick is the dead 

If you would live in the air-fight game; 
Speed, give 'em speed, and a-top of it — speed! 

(Man or machine exactly the same). 
Think and stunt, move, shoot, quickly; or die, 

Fight quick or die quick; when all is said, 
There are two kinds of fighters who fl.y, 

Only two kinds — the quick, and the dead. 



VII 

THE AIR MASTERS 

It is hardly known to the general public — which 
seems a pity — that the Navy has, working on 
the Western Front, some Air Squadrons who 
fly only over the land and have not so much 
as seen the sea, except by chance or from a 
long distance, from year's end to year's end. 
They have carried into their shore-going lives a 
number of Navy ways, like the curt "Thank 
God" grace at the end of a meal, or the mustering 
of all hands for "Divisions" (Navalese for 
"Parade") in the morning, marking off the 
time by so many "bells," hoisting and lowering 
at sunrise and sunset the white ensign flown 
on a flagstaff on the 'drome; they stick to their 
Navy ratings of petty officers and sub-lieutenants 
and so on, and interlard their speech more or 
less with Navy lingo — a very useful and expres- 
sive one, by the way, in describing air manoeuvres 
— but otherwise carry out their patrols and air 
work with, and on about the same lines as, 
the R.F.C. 

Naval Number Something is a "fighting 
scout" Squadron, which means that its sole 

80 



THE AIR MASTERS 81 

occupation in life is to hunt for trouble, to find 
and fight, "sink, burn or destroy" Huns. At 
first thought it may seem to the Army which 
fights "on the floor" that this job of a fighting 
machine is one which need interest no one out- 
side the Air Service, that it is airman fighting 
against airman, and that, except from a point 
of mere sporting interest, the results of these 
fights don't concern or affect the rest of the 
Army, that the war would roll on just the same 
for them whichever side had the upper hand 
in the air fighting. Those who think so are 
very far wrong, because it is on the fighters pure 
and simple that the air mastery depends. Air 
work is a business, a highly complicated, com- 
pletely organised and efficient business, and 
one bit of it has to dovetail into another just 
as the Army's does. The machines which spot 
for our guns, and direct the shooting of our 
batteries to destroy enemy batteries which 
would otherwise destroy our trenches and our 
men in them; the reconnaissance machines 
which fly up and down Hunland all day and 
bring back reports of the movements of troops 
and trains and the concentration or removal 
of forces, and generally do work of which full 
and true value is known only to those Heads 
running the war; the photographing machines 
which bring back thousands of pictures of all 
sorts — the line knows a few, a very few, of these, 
and their officers study very attentively the 
trench photos before they go over the top in a 
raid or an attack, and so learn exactly how, why, 



82 THE AIR MASTERS 

and where they are to go; the bombing machines 
which blow up dumps of ammunition destined 
for the destruction of trenches and men, derail 
trains bringing up reinforcements or ammuni- 
tion to the Hun firing line, knock about the 
'dromes and the machines which otherwise 
would be gun-spotting, reconnoitring, and bomb- 
ing over our lines — and perhaps some day one 
may tell just how many Gotha raids have been 
upset, and cancelled by our bomb-raids on a 
Hun 'drome — all these various working machines 
depend entirely for their existence and freedom 
to do their work on the success of the fighting 
machines. The working machines carry guns, 
and fight when they have to, but the single- 
seater fighting machines are out for fight all the 
time, out to destroy enemy fighters, or to put 
out of action any enemy working machine they 
can come across. 

The struggle for the air mastery never ceases, 
and although it may never be absolute and 
complete, because the air is a big place to sweep 
quite clear and clean, the fact that scores of our 
machines spend all their flying hours anywhere 
over Hunland from the front lines to fifty miles 
and more behind them for every one Hun who 
flies over ours and, after a cruise of some minutes, 
races back again, is fairly good evidence of who 
holds the whip hand in the air. 

All this introduction is necessary to explain 
properly the importance of the fighting squad- 
rons' job, and why the winning of their fights 
is of such concern to every man in the Army, 



THE AIR MASTERS 83 

and to every man, woman, and child interested in 
any man in the Army. It also serves to explain 
why it was that three machines of Naval Number 
Something " leapt into the air" in a most tre- 
mendous hurry-skurry, the pilots finishing 
the buckling of their coats (one going without 
a coat indeed) and putting on goggles after they 
had risen, when the look-out at the Squadron 
telescope reported that there were four Hun 
two-seater machines circling round at about 
10,000 or 12,000 feet and just far enough over 
our front lines to look suspiciously like being on 
a gun-spotting or "Art.-Ob." bit of business. 

That such a performance should be taking 
place almost within sight of their own 'drome 
doorstep naturally annoyed the Navals, and led 
to the immediate and hurried steps which took 
the three machines and pilots who were first ready 
into the air in "two shakes of the jib-sheet." 
The three men were all veteran fighters, and 
their machines three of the Squadron's best, and 
if the four Huns had known their reputations and 
calibre it is doubtful if they would have dared 
to hang about and carry on with their work as 
they did. There was "Mel" Byrne, a big man 
with a D.S.C. and a Croix de Guerre ribbon on his 
breast, and a score of crashed Huns notched to his 
credit, flying his "Kangaroo"; "Rip" Winkle, 
who had once met and attacked, single-handed, 
seven Huns, shot down and crashed three hand- 
running and chased the others headlong as far 
over Hunland as his petrol would take him: 
he was in his "Minnenwerfer"; and the "next 



84 THE AIR MASTERS 

astern" was the '"Un-settler" flown by "Ten- 
franc" or "Frankie" Jones, a youngster of — 
well, officially, twenty, so called, not because he 
was in his baptism named Frank, but because 
of a bet he had made with another Naval Squad- 
ron as to which Squadron would " crash" 
the most Huns by a stated date. He was 
desperately keen to win his often-referred-to 
wager — so much so in fact that the other pilots 
chaffed him constantly on it and swore he would 
risk more to win his bet than he would to win 
aV.C. 

The three wasted no time in the usual circling 
climb over the 'drome, but drove up full tilt and 
straight for the four dots in the sky. They 
climbed as they went, and since the Trichord 
type is rather famous for its climbing powers 
they made pretty good height as they went. 
"Mel," in the lead, was in a desperate hurry to 
interrupt the enemy's artillery-spotting work, so 
gave away the advantage of height and sacrificed 
the greater climb they could attain with a lesser 
speed to the urgent haste and need of getting 
in touch with the enemy. They were still a 
good couple of thousand feet below when they 
came to within half a mile of the Huns, and 
the " Kangaroo," with the others following close, 
tilted steeply up and began to show what a 
Trichord really could do if it were asked of her. 
They were gaining height so rapidly that the 
Huns evidently did not like it, and two of them 
turned out and drove over to a position above 
the Trichords. The three paid no attention to 



THE AIR MASTERS 85 

them, but climbed steeply, swinging in towards 
the other two machines which, since they still 
continued their circling, were probably con- 
tinuing their " shoot" and signalling back to 
their guns. But the Trichords were too threaten- 
ing to be left longer alone. The two turned and 
flew east, with the Trichords in hot pursuit, 
slanted round, and presently were joined by 
their friends. Then the four plunged on the 
three in an almost vertical dive. Because the 
fighting scout only shoots straight forward out 
of a fixed gun, its bows must be pointing straight 
at a target before it can fire, and the Huns' 
straight-down dive was meant to catch the 
Trichords at a disadvantage, since it was hardly 
to be expected they could stand on their tails 
to shoot straight up in the air. But this is 
almost what they did. All three, going "full 
out," turned their noses abruptly up and opened 
fire. The Huns turned their dive off into an 
upward "zoom" and a circling bank which 
allowed their observers to point their guns over 
and down at the Trichords, and fire a number 
of rounds. 

But because it was now perfectly obvious that 
the Trichords had attained their first and most 
urgent object, the breaking- off of the Huns' 
"shoot" and spotting for their guns, they could 
now proceed to the next desirable part of the 
programme — the destruction of the four Huns by 
methods which would level up the fighting 
chances a little. The "Kangaroo" shot out 
eastward and began to climb steeply, Mel ex- 



86 THE AIR MASTERS 

pecting that the other two would follow his 
tactics, get between the enemy and their lines, 
and climb to or above their height. But the 
"'Un-settler" was in trouble of some sort, and 
after firing a coloured light as a signal to the 
leader meaning "Out of action; am returning 
home," slid off west in a long glide with her 
engine shut off. Rip Winkle, on the "Minnen- 
werfer," followed the "Kangaroo" east a few 
hundred yards and began to climb. The four 
Huns at first tried to keep above the level of 
the two, but it was quickly evident that the 
Trichords were outclimbing them hand over 
fist, were going up in a most amazing lift, in 
"a spiral about as steep as a Tube stair." The 
Huns didn't like the look of things and suddenly 
turned for their lines, dropped their noses, and 
went off at full speed. The two Trichords cut 
slanting across to connect with them, and in 
half a minute were close enough to open fire. 
Two against four, they fought a fierce running 
fight for a minute or two. Then the "Kan- 
garoo" swept in astern of a Hun, dived and 
zoomed up under him and poured in a point- 
blank burst of fire. Mel saw his bullets hailing 
into and splintering the woodwork of the under- 
body, was just in time to throttle down and 
check the "Kangaroo" as the Hun's tail flicked 
up and he went sweeping down in a spinning 
nose dive. But a hard-pressed pilot will some- 
times adopt that manoeuvre deliberately to 
throw a pursuer out of position, and, knowing 
this, Mel followed him down to make sure he 



THE AIR MASTERS 87 

was finished, followed him watching the spin 
grow wilder and wilder, and finish in a splinter- 
ing crash on the ground. Mel lifted the " Kan- 
garoo" and drove off full pelt after the others. 
Two of the Huns had dived and were skimming 
the ground — they were well over Hunland by- 
no w — and the other one and the "Minnen- 
werfer" were wheeling and circling and darting 
in and out about each other exactly like two 
boxers sparring for an opening, their machine- 
guns rattling rapidly as either pilot or gunner 
got his sights on the target. Then when he 
was almost close enough to join in, Mel saw a 
spurt of flame and a gust of smoke lick out 
from the fuselage of the Hun. The machine 
lurched, recovered, and dipped over to dive 
down; the " Minnenwerfer" leaped in to give 
her the death-blow, and under the fresh hail of 
bullets the Hun plunged steeply, with smoke 
and flame pouring up from the machine's body. 
The wind drove the flames aft, and in two 
seconds she was enveloped in them, became a 
roaring bonfire, a live torch hurtling to the 
ground. The Trichords saw her observer 
scramble from his cockpit, balance an instant 
on the flaming body, throw his hands up and leap 
out into the empty air, and go twisting and 
whirling down to earth. 

A Hun Archie shell screamed up past the 
hovering Trichords and burst over their heads, 
and others followed in quick succession as the 
two turned and began to climb in twisting and 
erratic curves designed to upset the gunners' 



88 THE AIR MASTERS 

aim. They worked east as they rose and were 
almost over the lines when Mel, in one of his 
circlings, caught sight of a big formation flying 
towards them from the west. He steadied his 
machine and took another long look, and in a 
moment saw they were Huns, counted them 
and found fourteen, most of them scouts, some 
of them two-seaters of a type that Mel knew as 
one commonly used by the Huns on the infre- 
quent occasions they get a chance to do artillery- 
observing work on our lines. Both Mel and 
Rip worked out the situation on much the 
same lines, that the Huns had some important 
" shoot" on, were specially keen to do some 
observing for their guns, had sent the four 
two-seaters first and were following them up 
with other two-seater observing-machines pro- 
tected by a strong escort of fighters. Mel 
looked round for any sight of a formation of 
ours that might be ready to interrupt the 
game, saw none, and selecting the correct 
coloured light, fired a signal to Rip saying, 
"I am going to attack." Rip, as a matter of 
fact, was so certain he would do so that he had 
already commenced to climb his machine to 
gain a favourable position. The fourteen were 
at some 17,000 feet, several thousand above the 
Trichords, but here the great climbing power 
of the Trichords stood to them, and they went 
up and up, in swift turn on turn that brought 
them almost to a level with the enemy before 
the Huns were within shooting distance. They 
came on with the scouts flying in a wedge-shaped 



THE AIR MASTERS 89 

formation, and the observing-machines pro- 
tected and covered inside the wedge. 

The odds were so hugely in their favour that 
it was clear they never dreamed the two would 
attack their fourteen, and they drove straight 
forward to cross above the lines. But the 
Trichords wakened them quickly and rudely. 
Each wheeled out wide and clear of the forma- 
tion, closed in astern of it to either side, lifted 
sharply to pick up an extra bit of useful height, 
dived, and came hurtling, engines going full 
out and guns shooting their hardest, arrow- 
straight at the two-seaters in the centre of the 
formation below them. Owing to the direction 
of their attack, only the observers' guns on the 
two-seaters had any chance to bring an effective 
fire to bear. It is true that the few scouts in 
the rear of the wedge did fire a few scattering 
shots. But scouts, you will remember, having 
only fixed guns shooting forward, can only fire 
dead ahead in the direction the machine is 
travelling, must aim the machine to hit with 
the gun. This means that the target presented 
to them of the Trichords flashing down across 
their bows made it almost impossible for them 
to keep a Trichord in their sights for more than 
an instant, if indeed they were quick enough 
to get an aim at all. Their fire went wide and 
harmless. The two-seaters did better, and both 
Trichords had jets of flaming and smoking 
tracer bullets spitting past them as they came, 
had several hits through their wings. But 
they, because they held their machines steady 



90 THE AIR MASTERS 

and plunged down straight as bullets them- 
selves on to their marks, were able to keep 
longer, steadier and better aim. Mel, as he 
drove down close to his target, saw the gaping 
rents his bullets were slashing in the fuselage 
near the observer, saw in the flashing instant 
as he turned and hoicked up and away, the 
observer collapse and fall forward with his 
hands hanging over the edge of his cockpit. 
Rip saw no visible signs of his bullets, but saw 
the visible result a moment after he also had 
swirled up, made a long fast climbing turn, and 
steadied his machine for another dive. His 
Hun dropped out of the formation and down 
in long twisting curves, apparently out of control. 
He had no time to watch her down, because 
half a dozen of the Hun scouts, deciding evidently 
that this couple of enemies deserved serious 
consideration, swung out and began to climb 
after the Trichords. Mel promptly dived down 
past them, under the two-seaters and up again 
under one. The instant he had her in the 
gun-sights he let drive and saw his bullets 
breaking and tearing into her. She side-slipped 
wildly, rolled over, and Mel watched for no 
more, but turned his attention and his gun to 
another target. 

By now the half-dozen Hun scouts had ob- 
tained height enough to allow them to copy 
the Trichords' dive-and-shoot tactics, and down 
they came to the long clattering fire of their 
machine-guns. Both Trichords had a score 
of rents in wings and fuselage and tail planes, 



THE AIR MASTERS 91 

but by a mercy no shot touched a vital part. 
But they could hardly afford to risk such chances 
often, so went back to their plan of outclimbing 
and diving on their enemies. Over and over 
again they did this, and because of their far 
superior climb were able to keep on doing it 
despite every effort of the Huns. Machine 
after machine they sent driving down, some 
being uncertain " crashes" or "out-of -controls," 
but most of them being at least definitely 
" driven down" since they did not rejoin the 
fight, and were forced to drop to such landing- 
places as they could find. There were some 
definite "crashes," one which fell wrapped in 
roaring flame from stem to stern; another on 
which Rip saw his bullets slashing in long tears 
across the starboard wing, the splinters fly 
from a couple of the wing struts as the bullets 
sheared them through in splitting ragged frag- 
ments. In an instant the whole upper wing 
flared upward and back and tore off, the lower 
folded back to the body, flapped and wrenched 
fiercely as the machine rolled over and fell, 
gave and ripped loose; the port wings followed, 
breaking short off and away, leaving the machine 
to drop like a plummet to the ground. The 
third certain crash was in the later stages of 
the fight. The constant dive-and-zoom of the 
Trichords had the desired effect of driving 
the Huns lower and lower each time in their 
endeavour to gain speed and avoid the fierce 
rushes from above. Strive as they would, 
they could not gain an upper position. Some 



92 THE AIR MASTERS 

of them tried to fly wide and climb while the 
Trichords were busy with the remainder; but 
one or other of the two leaped out after them, 
hoicked up above them, drove them lower, or 
shot them down, in repeated dives. 

The fight that had started a good 17,000 feet 
up and close over the trenches, finished at 
about 1,000 feet and six to seven miles behind 
the German lines. At that height, the pilot of 
one Hun driven into a side-slip was not able 
to recover in time and smashed at full speed into 
the ground; another was forced so low that he 
tried to land, hit a hedge and turned over; a 
third landed twisting sideways and at least tore 
a wing away. 

Then the two Trichords, splintered and rent 
and gaping with explosive-bullet wounds, with 
their ammunition completely expended, their 
oil and petrol tanks running dry, turned for 
home, leaving their fourteen enemies scattered 
wide and low in the air, or piled in splintered 
smoking wreckage along the ground below the 
line of their flight. The fight with the fourteen 
had run without a break for three-quarters of 
an hour. 

They never knew exactly how many victims 
they had "sunk, burned or destroyed." As 
they stated apologetically in the official " Com- 
bat Report" that night: " Owing to the close 
presence of other active E.A. 1 driven-down 
machines could not be watched to the ground." 

"Frankie" was almost more annoyed over 

1 E.A. = enemy aircraft. 



THE AIR MASTERS 93 

this than he was over having had to pull out of 
the action with a dud machine. "If we could 
have confirmed all your .crashes," he remarked 
regretfully, "it would have been such a jolly 
boost-up to the Squadron's tally — to say nothing 
of my wager." 



VIII 

"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 

The infantry who watched from their trenches 
one afternoon a Flight of our machines droning 
over high above their heads had no inkling 
of the effect that Flight was going to have on 
their, the infantry's, well-being. If they had 
known that the work of this Flight, the suc- 
cessful carrying out of its mission, was going 
to make all the difference of life and death 
to them they might have been more interested 
in it. But they did not know then, and do 
not know now, and what is perhaps more 
surprising, the Flight itself never fully learned 
the result of their patrol, because air work, 
so divided up and apparently disconnected, is 
really a systematic whole, and only those whose 
work it is to collect the threads and twist them 
together know properly how much one means 
to the other. 

This Flight was out on a photographic patrol. 
They had been ordered to proceed to a certain 
spot over Hunland and take a series of pictures 
there, and they did so and returned in due 

94 



"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 95 

course with nothing more unusual about the 
performance than rather a high average of 
attentions paid to them by the Hun Archies. 
The photos were developed and printed as 
usual within a few minutes of the machines 
touching the ground, and were rushed off to 
their normal destinations. The photographers 
went to their afternoon tea and forgot the 
matter. 

But in a Nissen hut some miles from the 
photographers' 'drome afternoon tea was held 
up, while several people pored over the photos 
with magnifying glasses, consulted the many 
maps which hung round the walls and covered 
the tables, spoke earnestly into telephones, 
and dictated urgent notes. One result of all 
this activity was that Captain Washburn, or 
"Washie," and his Observer Lieutenant "Pip" 
Smith, to their no slight annoyance, were 
dragged from their tea and pushed off on an 
urgent reconnaissance, and two Flights of two 
fighting scout Squadrons received orders to 
make their patrol half an hour before the time 
ordered. Washie and his Observer were 
both rather specialists in reconnaissance work, 
and they received sufficient of a hint from their 
Squadron Commander of the urgency of their 
job to wipe out their regrets of a lost tea and 
set them bustling aboard their 'bus "Pan" 
and up into the air. 

It may be mentioned briefly here that three 
other machines went out on the same recon- 
naissance. One was shot down before she was 



96 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 

well over the lines; another struggled home 
with serious engine trouble; the third was 
so harried and harassed by enemy scouts that 
she was lucky to be able to fight them off and 
get home, with many bullet holes — and no 
information. Washie and Pip did better, 
although they too had a lively trip. To make 
sure of their information they had to fly rather 
low, and as soon as they began to near the 
ground which they wanted to examine the 
Hun Archies became most unpleasantly active. 
A shell fragment came up through the fuselage 
with an ugly rip, and another smacked bursting 
through both right planes. Later, in a swift 
dive down to about a thousand feet, "Pan" 
collected another assortment of souvenirs from 
machine-guns and rifles, but Washie climbed 
her steeply out of range, while Pip busied 
himself jotting down some notes of the exceed- 
ingly useful information the low dive had 
brought them. 

Then six Hun fighting scouts arrived at 
speed, and set about the "Pan" in an earnest 
endeavour to crash her and her information 
together. Pilot and Observer had a moment's 
doubt whether to fight or run. They had 
already seen enough to make it Urgent that 
they should get their information foack, and 
yet they were both sure there was r^ore to see 
and that they ought to see it. The{r doubts 
were settled by the Huns diving o$ 6hem one 
after another, with machine-guns going their 
hardest. The first went down past them spat- 



"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 97 

tering a few bullets through "Pan's" tail 
planes as he passed. The second Pip caught 
fairly with a short burst as he came past, and 
the Hun continued his dive, fell off in a spin, 
and ended in a violent crash below. The third 
and fourth dived on "Pan" from the right 
side and the fifth and sixth on her left. Pip 
managed to wing one on the right, and sent 
him fluttering down out of the fight more or 
less under control, and Washie stalled the 
"Pan" violently, wrenched her round in an 
Immelman turn, and plunged straight at another 
Hun, pumping a stream of bullets into him from 
his bow gun. The Hun went down with a 
torrent of black smoke gushing from his fuselage. 
Washie brought "Pan" hard round on her 
heel again, opened his engine full out and ran 
for it, with the scattered Huns circling and 
following in hard pursuit. Now "Pan" could 
travel to some tune when she was really asked 
— and Washie was asking her now. She 
was a good machine with a good engine; her 
pilot knew every stitch and stay, every rod, 
bolt, and bearing in her (and his rigger and 
fitter knew that he knew and treated him and 
her accordingly), every little whim in her that 
it paid him to humour, every little trick that 
would get an extra inch of speed out of her. 
A first-class pilot on a first-class scout ought 
to overhaul a first-class pilot and two-seater; 
but either the "Pan" or her pilot was a shade 
more first-class than the pursuers, and Washie 
managed to keep far enough ahead to be out 



98 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 

of accurate shooting range and allow Pip 
to scrutinise the ground carefully as they flew. 
For Washie was running it is true, but was 
running east and further out over Hunland 
and the area he wanted to reconnoitre, and 
Pip was still picking up the very information 
they had been sent to find. 

When they swung north the three pursuing 
scouts by cutting the corner came up on them 
again, and Pip left his notes to stand by 
his gun. There was some brisk shooting in the 
next minute, but "Pan" broke clear with 
another series of holes spattered through her 
planes and fuselage, and Pip with the calf 
of his leg badly holed by an explosive bullet, 
but with his gun still rapping out short bursts 
over the tail. They were heading for home 
now, and Washie signalled Pip to speak 
to him. The "Pan" is one of those comfort- 
ably designed machines with pilot's and ob- 
server's cockpits so close together that the 
two men can shout in each other's ear. Pip 
leaned over and Washie yelled at him. 
"Seen enough? Got all you want?" "Yes." 
Pip nodded and tapped his note-block. "All 

I want," he yelled, "and then some " and 

he wiped his hand across his wound, showed 
Washie the red blood, and shouted "Leg 
hit." 

That settled it. Washie lifted the "Pan" 
and drove her, all out, for home, taking the 
risk of some bullet-holed portion of her frame 
failing to stand the strain of excessive speed 



"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 99 

rather than the risk of going easy and letting 
the pursuers close for another fight with a 
wounded observer to protect his tail. 

" They've dropped off," shouted Pip a 
few minutes later. Washie swung and be- 
gan to lift the "Pan" in climbing turn on turn. 
"Look out," he shouted back, "look out," 
and stabbed a finger out to point a group of 
Huns ahead of them and cutting them off from 
the fines. Next minute Pip in his turn pointed 
to another group coming up from the south 
well above them and heading to cut them off. 
Washie swept round, dipped his nose slightly, 
and drove at the first group. The next few 
minutes were unpleasantly hot. The Huns 
strove to turn them, to hold them from break- 
ing through or past, or drive them lower and 
lower, while Washie twisted and dived and 
zoomed and tried to dodge through or under 
them, with his gun spitting short bursts 
every time he caught a target in his sights; 
and Pip, weakening and faint from pain 
and loss of blood, seconded him as best he 
could with rather erratic shooting. 

Affairs were looking bad for them, even when 
"Pan" ran out and west with no enemy ahead 
but with four of them clinging to her flanks 
and tail and pumping quick bursts at her; but 
just here came in those two Flights of our 
fighting scout Squadrons — quite accidentally 
so far as they knew, actually of set design and 
as part of the ordered scheme. Six streaking 
shapes came flashing down into the fight with 



100 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 

their machine-guns pouring long bursts of ih-«s 
ahead of them, and the four close-pursuing 
Huns left the "Pan" and turned to join up 
with their scattered companions. Washie 
left them to fight it out, and turned directly, 
and very thankfully, for his 'drome. 

This ends the tale of "Pan," but not by any 
means of the result of her work. That work, 
in the shape of jerky but significant reports, 
was being dissected in the map-hung Nissen 
hut even before Pip had reached the Casualty 
Clearing Station; and "Pan's" work (con- 
firming those suspicious photographs) again bred 
other work, more urgent telephone talks, and 
Immediate orders. The stir spread, circle 
by circle, during the night, and before day- 
break the orders had borne their fruit, and 
Flights — Artillery-Observing, reconnoitring and 
fighting-scout — were lined up on their grounds 
waiting the moment to go; the Night Bombers 
were circling in from their second and third 
trips of destruction on lines of communication, 
railways and roads, junctions and bridges, 
enemy troops and transport in rest or on the 
march, ammunition dumps and stores; in the 
front lines the infantry were "standing to" 
with everything ready and prepared to meet 
an attack; the support lines were filling with 
reinforcements, which again were being strength- 
ened by battalions tramping up the roads 
from the rear; in the gun lines the lean hungry 
muzzles of the long-range guns were poking 
and peering up and out from pit and emplace- 



"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 101 

ment, and the squat howitzers were lifting or 
lowering to carefully worked out angles. 

Before daybreak was more than a mere 
doubtful smudge of lighter colour in the east, 
the waiting Flights were up and away to their 
appointed beats, and the first guns began to 
drop their shells, shooting "by the map" 
(maps made or corrected from air photographs), 
or on previously "registered" lines. 

The infantry up in front heard the machines 
hum and drone overhead, heard the rush and 
howl of the passing shells, the thud of the guns' 
reports, the thump of the high-explosive's 
burst. That, for a time, was all. For a good 
half-hour there was nothing more, no sign of 
the heavy attack they had been warned was 
coming. Then the gunfire began to grow 
heavier, and as the light strengthened, little 
dots could be seen circling and wheeling against 
the sky and now and again a faint and far-off 
tat-tat-tat-tat came from the upper air. For if 
it was quiet and inactive on the ground, it was 
very much the other way in the air. Our 
reconnoitring and gun-spotting machines were 
quartering the ground in search of targets, the 
scout machines sweeping to and fro above them 
ready to drop on any hostiles which tried to 
interrupt them in their work. The hostiles 
tried quickly enough. They were out in strength, 
and they did their best to drive off or sink our 
machines, prevent them spying out the land, 
or directing our guns on the massing battalions. 
But they were given little chance to interrupt. 



102 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 

Let any of their formations dive on our gun- 
spotters, and before they had well come into 
action down plunged our scouts after them, 
engaged them fiercely, drove them off, or drew 
them away in desperate defensive fighting. 
Gradually the light grew until the reconnoitring 
machines could see and mark the points of 
concentration, the masses moving into position, 
the filled and filling trenches; until the gun- 
spotters could mark down the same targets 
and the observers place their positions on the 
map. Then their wireless began to whisper 
back their messages from the air to the little 
huts and shanties back at Headquarters and 
the battery positions; and then . . . 

It was the turn of the guns to speak. Up in 
the trenches the infantry heard the separate 
thuds and thumps quicken and close and run 
into one long tremendous roar, heard the shells 
whistle and shriek and howl and moan over 
their heads, saw the ground far out in front of 
them veil in twisting smoke wreaths, spout and 
leap in volcanoes of smoke, earth, and fire. 
Battery by battery, gun by gun, the artillery 
picked up and swelled the chorus. The enemy 
machines did little gun-spotting over our posi- 
tions. If one or two sneaked over high above 
the line, it needed no more than the first few 
puffs about them from our watching Archies to 
bring some of our scouts plunging on them, 
turning them and driving after them in head- 
long pursuit. On the ground men knew little 
or nothing of all this, of the moves and counter- 



"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 103 

moves, the dodging and fighting high over their 
heads. Their attention was taken up by the 
ferocious fire of our artillery, and in waiting, 
waiting, for the attack which never came. 

Small wonder it never came. The guns 
caught it fairly, as it was developing and shaping 
and settling into position for the assault. The 
attack was a little late, as we heard after from 
prisoners — perhaps the Night Bombers, and 
their upsetting of road and rail transport time- 
tables with high-explosive bombs and showering 
machine-guns, had some word in that late- 
ness — and our fire caught it in the act of deploy- 
ing. And when such a weight of guns as was 
massed on that front catches solid battalions 
on the roads, or troops close-packed in trenches, 
the Lord ha' mercy on the men they catch. 
The shells rained, deluged down on every trench, 
every road and communication way within 
range, searched every thicket and patch of 
cover, blasted the dead woods to splintered 
wreckage, smashed in dug-out and emplace- 
ment, broke down the trenches to tumbled 
smoking gutters, gashed and seamed and pitted 
the bare earth into a honeycombed belt of death 
and destruction. The high-explosive broke in, 
tore open, wrenched apart and destroyed the 
covering trenches and dug-outs; the shrapnel 
raked and rent; the tattered fragments of bat- 
talions that scattered and sought shelter in 
the shell-holes and craters. The masses that 
were moving up to push home the intended 
attack escaped if they were checked and stayed 



104 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 

in time; those that had arrived and passed 
into the furnace were simply and utterly des- 
troyed. 

For a good three hours the roaring whirlwind 
of gunfire never ceased, or even slacked; for 
three hours the ground for a full mile back 
from the Hun front line rolled billowing clouds 
of smoke, quivered and shook to the crash 
of the explosions, spurted and boiled and eddied 
under the shells "like a bubbling porridge 
pot," as one gun-spotter put it, was scorched 
with fire, flayed with lead and steel, drenched 
and drowned with gas fron the poison shells. 

For three hours the circling planes above 
watched for sign of movement below, and seeing 
any such sign talked back by wireless to the 
guns, waited and watched the wrath descend 
and blot out the movement in fresh whirlwinds 
of concentrated fire; while further back a full 
five to ten miles other spotters quartered to 
and fro working steadily, sending back call 
after call to our Heavies, and silencing, one by 
one, battery after battery which was pounding 
our trenches with long-range fire. And for 
three hours the infantry crouched half deafened 
in their trenches, listening to the bellowing 
uproar, watching the writhing smoke-fog which 
veiled but could not conceal the tearing destruc- 
tion that raged up and down, to and fro, across 
and across the swept ground. 

Three hours, three long hours — and one can 
only guess how long they were to the maimed 
and wounded, cowering and squeezing flat to 



"THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 105 

earth in the reeking shell-holes, gasping for 
choked breath through their gas-masks, quiver- 
ing under the fear of further wounds or sudden 
and violent death; how bitterly long they 
were to the German commanders and generals 
watching their plans destroyed, their attack 
wiped out, their regiments and battalions burnt 
away in our consuming fire. 

Our despatches, after their common use and 
wont, put the matter coldly, dispassionately, 
and with under- rather than over-statement of 
facts — "The attack was broken by our artillery 
fire." 

Broken! Smashed rather; attack and at- 
tackers blotted out, annihilated, utterly and 
entirely. 

"By our artillery fire." The truth no doubt, 
but hardly the complete truth, since it said 
no word of the part the Air Service had played. 
So few knew what had been brought about by 
the work of a photographic patrol, the following 
reconnaissance, the resulting air work. 

The infantry never knew how it was that 
the attack never reached them, why they did 
not have to beat it off with bullet and bayonet 
—or be beaten in by it — except that the guns 
perhaps had stopped it. The public did not 
know because the press did not say — perhaps 
because the press itself didn't know. And 
what the Air Service knew, as usual it didn't 
tell. 

But Somebody evidently knew, because 
Washie and Pip found themselves shortly 



106 "THE ATTACK WAS BROKEN" 

afterwards in Orders for a Decoration; and 
apparently the Squadron knew, because next 
morning when he went out to his 'bus Washie 
found that "Pan" had a neat little splash of 
paint on what you might call her left breast, 
an oblong little patch showing the colours of 
the ribbon of the Military Cross. 



All that we are and all we own, 
All that we have and hold or take, 
All that we tackle or do or try 
Is not for our, or the Corps' own sake. 

Through our open eyes the Armies see, 
We look and we learn that they may know. 
Collect from the clouds the news they need, 
And carry it back to them below. 
We harry the guns that do us no harm, 
We picture the paths we shall never take; 
There's naught to help or to hinder us 
On the road we bomb or the bridge we break. 
Only to work where our footmen wish, 
Only to guard them from prying eyes, 
To find and to fetch the word they want, 
We war unceasing and hold the skies. 

All that we are and all we own, 

All that we have or hope or know, 

Our work and our wits, our deaths, our lives, 

We stake above, that they win below. 



IX 

IF THEY KNEW— 

A group of infantry in our front line trench 
watching the boiling eddying smoke and spurt- 
ing fires of our artillery barrage on the enemy 
lines saw a couple of planes whirl suddenly 
up into sight above and beyond the barrage 
smoke. They were diving and twisting about 
each other like a couple of tumbler pigeons 
in flight, or rather, since one was obviously 
pursuing the other closely, like a pigeon hard 
pressed by a hawk. The excitement of the 
infantry turned to disgust as they caught plain 
sight of the markings on the machines, saw that 
the pursued was a British machine, the pursuer 
a black-crossed German. And when the British 
machine came rocketting and whirling through 
the barrage smother in plain flight from the 
German, who dared not follow through the wall 
of falling and bursting shells, the disgust of 
the men on the ground was openly and angrily 
expressed. 

" Mastery o' the air," shouted one. "Fat 
lot he'll master." And from the others came 
similar jeers — "Hurry up, son, or he'll catch 

107 



108 IF THEY KNEW— 

you yet — Why couldn't he have put up a fight? 
— Do they ever court-martial them blokes for 
runnin' away? — Fritz fliers top dog again." 

And yet, if those men had known, they would 
have cheered the man passing over them, 
cheered him for as plucky a man as ever flew 
—and that is saying something. If they knew, 
so often if they knew — but at least I can let 
them know something of this particular story. 

The Flight went out as usual on u o.p." 
(offensive patrol), which, again as usual, had 
taken them well over Hunland. For the first 
half-hour they had a dull time, seeing no Huns 
about and having no more than the normal 
amount of Archie fire to dodge. Then the 
Flight Leader spotted a string of dots to east- 
ward, and on counting them and finding they 
numbered something round a dozen to fifteen, 
concluded they were Huns. He ensured the 
Flight's attention to the matter, and then 
pointing his machine straight at the enemy, 
and after glancing round to make sure the Flight 
were in correct formation, began to climb them 
steadily up and towards the oncoming hostiles. 
He kept a close watch on the enemy, because 
he knew that the Squadron to which he be- 
longed and the type of machine they flew had 
a name apparently discouraging to the Huns' 
fighting inclinations, and he was afraid that, 
even with more than two to one in their favour, 
they might on recognising the Flight avoid 
action and clear off. The Flight had already 
burnt a good hour's petrol and had some miles 



IF THEY KNEW— 109 

to go back home, and this did not leave a very- 
great margin for a long pursuit and perhaps 
a prolonged fight. But this time the Huns 
showed no sign of shirking the fight, and came 
driving straight west on a course which must 
very soon bring them into contact with the 
Flight. As they swept closer it was seen that 
the hostile fleet was made up of three two- 
seater machines and a dozen single-seater fight- 
ing scouts, and just before they came close 
enough for action "Ailie" Arrowman, the 
Flight Leader, noticed something else that made 
him decide very quickly to concentrate the 
Flight's frightfulness on the two-seaters. The 
three were bombers, and from their slow and 
heavy flight obviously fully loaded with bombs, 
and from the direction they were taking were 
clearly out on a bombing raid over the British 
lines. 

Now these Hun raids and bomb-droppings 
had been becoming unpleasantly frequent for a 
little time before this, and all our patrols had 
special orders to keep a sharp look-out for 
bombers and make things as hot for them as 
possible. The Hun was coming to specialise 
on rapid dashes over our lines, the hurried 
dropping of their eggs, and a hasty bee-line 
flight for home. Our infantry and our batteries 
were a good deal annoyed by these attentions, 
and naturally and very simply wanted to know 
why our flying men didn't "stop these blighters 
coming and going as they liked." This, of 
course, is a delusion of the men on the ground. 



110 IF THEY KNEW— 

The Huns were very far from doing as they 
liked, but since the air (for flying purposes) is 
twenty odd thousand feet high, and as long as 
the line, it takes a lot of policing against tip- 
and-run raids, especially when you remember 
that machines can pass within quite a few 
hundred yards of each other and never know 
the other is there. The groundlings don't 
recognise these facts, much less the incidental 
possibilities of Huns sneaking over under cover 
of clouds and so on, and it must be confessed 
the airmen, as a rule, don't take many pains 
to enlighten them, even when they do get 
talking together. On the ground, again, they 
know nothing of the Hun bombers chased back 
and brought down well behind their own lines, 
and nothing of the raids which are caught and 
interrupted, as the one I'm telling of was about 
to be. 

All this is by the way, but it explains why 
Ailie was specially keen to out the bombing 
machines first of all, and also why the bombers 
at the first sign of attack on them dropped 
their noses and went off at a rush, and the Hun 
fighters hurriedly dived in to divert the Flight 
and force a fight with them. We need not 
at the moment follow the details of the whole 
fight, but see rather how the one man Ailie 
fared in it. But, incidentally, it may be men- 
tioned that the rest of the Flight sank one 
bomber and chased the other down to the 
ground, fought the escort and sank three of 
them at a cost of no more than one pilot wounded, 



IF THEY KNEW— 111 

a great many bullet holes in the machines, and 
one badly crippled and just able to reach and 
land on our side of the lines. 

Ailie went down in a hurricane dive on the 
first bomber, and since he was much faster 
than the big machine, especially with it carry- 
ing a full load, he caught it up rapidly, and 
bringing his bow gun into action commenced 
to hail a stream of lead on it. The gunner of 
the two-seater began to fire back at Ailie, but 
as his pilot at the same time was swerving and 
swinging his machine to dodge the streaking 
bullets, he spoiled the gunner's aim and few 
of the bullets came dangerously close to Ailie. 
But two of the enemy scouts had seen Ailie's 
charge, had promptly swung and dived after 
him, and, following hard astern, opened fire 
in their turn. Ailie caught up the two-seater, 
swooped down under her, throttled back to 
keep her pace, pulled down the gun fixed on 
his top plane, and started to pelt bullets up 
into the underbody hurtling along above him. 
The two Hun scouts dropped to his level and 
followed, shooting close and hard, and Ailie, 
finding their bullets snapping and smacking on 
his planes, was forced to swerve and duck and 
at last to turn sharp on them. Either he was the 
better pilot or his was the handier machine, 
because in a few seconds he had out-manoeuvred 
them and driven them diving down ahead of him. 
He ripped a short burst into one, wheeled, 
looked round for sight of his two-seater and, 
sighting it tearing off at top speed, swung and, 



112 IF THEY KNEW— 

opening his engine full out, went racing after 
it. The two-seater flung himself into a spin 
and went twisting and spiralling wildly down, 
Ailie following close and shooting whenever 
he could bring his sights to bear. But again 
the renewed rattle of close machine-gun fire 
began, and he glanced round to find the scouts 
hot in pursuit again. This time they were not 
to be pursuers only, for another of the Flight 
leaped suddenly into the fight, rattled off a 
quick burst of fire, and in an instant had one 
of the enemy scouts plunging down helplessly 
out of control, whirled round and without a 
second's hesitation attacked the second. The 
Hun bomber, down to about 1,000 feet, flattened 
out and drove off east with Ailie still hard after 
him. He was getting angry now. Burst after 
burst of fire he had poured, as far as he could 
see, straight into the big machine, and yet it 
kept on apparently unharmed. But suddenly 
its tail flicked up, a wing buckled and tore loose, 
and it went down rolling and pitching, to crash 
on the ground. 

Ailie swept over, leaning out and peering 
down on the heaped wreckage; but what- 
ever triumph he might have felt was short- 
lived, for at that moment tat-tat-tat-tat went a 
gun close behind him and then the quicker 
closer rattle of double or triple guns. Ailie 
hoicked hard up in a swift climbing turn, whirled 
round, and just catching one of the enemy 
scouts in his sights, gripped the trigger of the 
firing mechanism. His gun fired — once — and 



IF THEY KNEW— 113 

stopped, although he still held the trigger 
hard gripped and it should have continued to 
fire. The target swept clear, and Ailie, after 
gripping and releasing quickly several times, 
knew his gun had jammed. The two hostiles 
reopened fire on him, and he swerved, straight- 
ened out and went off in a bee-line at top 
speed. He was not unduly alarmed, although 
his position, a bare 1,000 feet off the ground 
and therefore well within ground shooting range 
of rifles and machine-guns, with a jammed 
gun, and with two scouts hard after him, was 
uncomfortably risky. He was on a fast machine, 
so fast that he did not believe the Hun flew 
that could catch him; and he reckoned that 
in a straightaway flight he could drop the two 
sufficiently to be out of urgent danger from 
them. As he flew he leaned forward, wrenched 
back the cover over the breech of his gun and 
jerked the loading lever rapidly to and fro. 
But the jammed cartridge stayed jammed and 
Ailie felt a first qualm of fear, as he heard the 
guns behind him reopen fire and recognised 
that he was not gaining on his enemies. Another 
gun broke into the chorus, and Ailie glanced 
round to see another of his Flight diving in 
and engaging one of the enemy. The second 
one, a bright scarlet painted scout, kept on 
after him, caught him up and dived firing on 
him. 

Then began a game that Ailie might remember 
in his nightmares for long enough. His machine 
was not doing her best, and the hostile fairly 



114 , IF THEY KNEW— 

had the wings of him. Time after time the 
Hun swooped up over him and dived down, 
firing as he came. Ailie could only duck and 
swerve and dodge, some of his dives bringing 
him perilously close to the ground; and as 
he flew he wrenched and jerked at his gun's 
firing mechanism, snatched the Verey pistol 
from its rack, and with the butt tapped and 
hammered at the gun, hoping the jar might 
loosen the cartridge. He escaped touching 
the ground and crashing over and over again 
by bare feet; more than once he had to zoom 
sharply and just cleared low trees or even bushes 
that appeared suddenly before him; once his 
wheels brushed and ripped across the top of 
a hedge, and once again in a banking turn his 
heart stood still for a second that seemed an 
eternity, as he banked steeply and the machine 
side-slipped until his wing-tip, as it appeared 
to him, was touching the grass. And all the 
time, in dive after dive, his enemy came whirl- 
ing down on him, the fire of his machine-gun 
clattering off burst after burst, and the 
bullets hissing past in flame and smoke or 
smacking venomously on the wings and body 
of Ailie's machine. 

And through it all, flinging his machine about, 
twirling and twisting like a champion skater 
cutting fancy and fantastic figures, doing star- 
performance low flying that might have kept 
every nerve and sense of any stunt-artist flier 
occupied to the full, Ailie still made shift to 
spare a hand and enough eye and mind for the 



IF THEY KNEW— 115 

job of fiddling and hammering and working to 
clear his jammed gun — a gun that was not even 
in a convenient position to handle because, 
set above the left upper edge of his cockpit, 
it was very little below the level of his face 
and awkwardly high for his hand to reach. 
He gave up trying to clear it at last and turned 
all his attention to out-manceuvring his op- 
ponent. The Hun was above him, and every 
time he tried to lift his machine the Hun dived, 
firing on him, and drove him down again. He 
was too low to pick up or follow landmarks, 
so kept the westering sun in his eyes, knowing 
this was edging him west towards our lines. 
The Hun after each dive did a climbing turn 
to a position to dive anew, and each time he 
climbed Ailie made another dash towards the 
west. The Hun saw the move, and, to beat 
it, dropped his climbing-turn tactics and in- 
stead dived and zoomed straight up, dived and 
zoomed again and again. Ailie saw his chance 
and took it. He throttled hard back next 
time the Hun dived, and as the Hun overshot 
him and zoomed straight up, Ailie in two swift 
motions pulled the stick in, lifting sharp up 
after and under him, pulled down the top gun 
and fired point blank into him. The Hun 
whirled over, dived vertically, and in an instant 
crashed heavily nose first into the ground. 
And Ailie's top gun had jammed after about its 
tenth shot. 

He flew on west, hardly for the moment daring 
to believe he had escaped, opening the throttle 



116 IF THEY KNEW— 

and starting to lift from his dangerous proximity 
to the ground mechanically, and with his mind 
hardly yet working properly. If he had not 
caught the Hun with that last handful of shots 
before his second gun jammed . . , 

And then, almost before he had collected 
his wits enough to realise properly how close 
his escape had been, that same horrible clatter 
of machine-gun fire from the air above and 
behind him broke out, the same hiss and snap 
of bullets came streaming about him. For a 
moment he had a wild idea that his Hun had 
not actually crashed, but a glance round showed 
that it was no longer the brilliant red machine, 
but another, and again a fighting scout. 

Exactly the old performance started all over 
again, but this time without even that slender 
chance he had used so well before of catching 
his enemy with the fire of his top gun. Again 
he went through the twisting and dodging and 
turning to avoid his relentless enemy and the 
fire that crackled about him. Again he dived 
into fields, skimmed the ground, hurdled over 
low bushes and hedges, used every flying trick 
and artifice he knew, but had never before 
dared try at less than thousands of feet height, 
to shake off his pursuer; and again as he flew 
he wriggled and worked at the jammed gun 
in front of him. For breathless minutes he 
worked, casting quick glances from the ground 
rushing under him to the gun mechanism, 
jockeying his machine with steady pressures 
or sharp kicks on the rudder-bar and one hand 



IF THEY KNEW— 117 

on the joy-stick, while the other fumbled and 
worked at the gun, and the bullets sang and 
cracked about him. By all the laws of chance, 
by all the rules of hazard, he should have been 
killed, shot down or driven down into a crash, 
a dozen times over in those few minutes; just 
as by all the limits of possibility he could 
never hope to clear a jammed gun while doing 
fancy flying at such a height. But against all 
chance and hazard and possibility — as pilots 
do oftener than most people outside themselves 
know — he flew on untouched, and . . . cleared 
his jamb. By now he was worked up to such 
a pitch of fear, frenzy, desperation, anger — it 
may have been any of them, it may have been 
something of all — that he took no further 
thought of manoeuvring or tactics, whirled 
blindly and drove straight at his enemy, firing 
as he went, feeling a savage joy in the jar and 
bang of his spurting gun. To avoid that 
desperate rush and the streaming bullets, the 
Hun swerved wide and swooped out in a bank- 
ing turn, a turn so hurriedly and blindly taken 
that, before he could properly see, he found 
himself whirling into the edge of a forest the 
chase had unwittingly skirted. Ailie saw him 
distinctly try to wrench round to clear the trees 
— but he was too near; to hoick up and over 
them — but he was too low. He crashed sideways 
on a tree-trunk, down headlong into the ground. 
Again Ailie swung and flew straight towards 
the sun, switching on to the emergency tank, 
because by now his main petrol tank was almost 



118 IF THEY KNEW— 

empty. He continued to fly low and no more 
than 100 or 200 feet off the ground. At his 
speed it would take a good shot to hit him from 
the ground; higher up he would run more risk 
of Archie fire and of meeting Huns, and — this 
perhaps was the main determining factor, be- 
cause by now he was almost exhausted with 
the fatigue of severe and prolonged strain — 
flying low would bring him quicker to the lines 
and safety. 

One might have supposed that by now the 
grim gods of War had had sport enough of him. 
But he was not yet free of them. Within a 
mile he was attacked again, and this time by 
three hostile scout fighters. He made no at- 
tempt to dodge or out-manceuvre them. His 
cartridges were almost finished, his machine 
was badly shot about, his petrol was running 
out. He opened his engine out to its fullest 
and drove hard and headlong for the lines and 
the drifting smoke and winking fires that told 
of an artillery barrage. Close to the barrage 
he had to swerve and dodge a moment, because 
one of the Huns was fairly on top of him and 
hailing lead on him, but next instant he plunged 
at, into and through the barrage, his machine 
rocking and pitching and rolling in the turmoil 
of shell-torn air, his eyes blinded by the drifting 
smoke, his ears stunned by the rending crashes 
and cracks of the drum-fire explosions. He 
won through safely and alone, for his three 
enemies balked at facing that puffing, spurting, 
fire-winking inferno, turned back and left him. 



IF THEY KNEW- 119 

Ailie, hardly daring to believe that he was 
actually clear and safe and free, steered for 
home. He skimmed his bullet-torn machine 
over the trenches, a machine holed and ripped 
and torn and cut with armour-piercing and 
explosive bullets, his guns jammed, his am- 
munition expended, his petrol at its last pints, 
he himself at almost the last point of exhaustion, 
dizzy from excitement, weak and faint from 
sheer strain. 

Yet this was the man and the moment that 
those infantry in the trenches jeered, looking 
up as he passed over, his ripped fabric fluttering, 
his shot-through wires whipping and trailing, 
blessing the wildest luck that had left him 
alive, heart-thankful for the sight of khaki in 
the trenches below him. 

It seems a pity those disgusted infantry could 
not have known the truth, of all he had come 
through, of those long danger-packed minutes, 
of those three crashed Huns scattered along 
his track — and of those bombs which would 
not drop on our lines, batteries, or billets that 
day. 



X 

THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 

I am naturally anxious to avoid angering the 
Censor by naming any particular type or make 
of machine, but fear it is inevitable that anyone 
who knows anything of aeroplanes must recog- 
nise in reading this story the type concerned, 
although that may hardly matter, since the Hun 
knows the type well (and to his sorrow), and the 
tale more fully in the exact detail of his casualties 
than we do. And because this type, which we 
may call the "Fo-Fum 2," has for a full year 
previous to the date of this story's happenings 
been openly scoffed at and condemned in speech 
and print by the "experts" as slow, clumsy, 
obsolete, and generally useless, I also fear I may 
be accused of " leg-pulling" and impossibly 
romancing in crediting the Fo-Fums with such a 
startling fight performance. I may warn such 
critics in advance, however, that I can produce 
official records to prove a dozen shows almost 
or quite equally good to the credit of the 
Fo-Fums. 

A Flight of six Fo-Fums went up and over 
Hunland one morning when a westerly wind and 

120 



THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 121 

a strong hint of dirty weather in the air made 
it an abnormally risky patrol for anything but 
the best of pilots and the most reliable of 
machines and engines. But the Fo-Fums, 
whatever their other faults, have at least the 
admitted merit of reliability, and the quality of 
the pilots on this patrol is fairly shown by this 
story. 

They were well over the lines and about 
10,000 feet up when a circus of about twenty 
Huns hove in sight well above them. The Flight 
Leader saw them and, climbing a little as they 
went, he led the formation towards the hostiles, 
or, as he put it, " beetled off to have a look at 
'em." The Huns evidently saw the Fo-Fums 
at the same time, and with natural willingness to 
indulge in a scrap with odds of more than three 
to one in their favour swooped up, " coming like 
stink," to quote the Flight Leader again, to the 
attack. 

The Fo-Fums knew how the ball would almost 
certainly open under the circumstances — twenty 
Hun scouts with the advantage of superior 
speed, height and weather gauge, against six 
Fo-Fums — and quietly slid into a formation they 
had more than once proved useful in similar 
conditions. 

The Huns, seeing no other enemies near endugh 
to interfere, circled above, collected their for- 
mation into shape, and made their leisurely dis- 
positions for the attack, while the Fo-Fums no 
less leisurely straightened out their wedge-shaped 
formation, swung the head of the line in a circle, 



122 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 

which brought the leader round until he was fol- 
lowing the last machine of the Flight, and so 
commenced a steady circling or — one can hardly 
refrain from quoting that expressive Flight 
Leader — " chasing each other's tails in a blessed 
ring-o'-roses giddy-go-round." The Huns drove 
up into a position which brought them between 
the Fo-Fums and the sun, thereby, of course, 
gaining the additional advantage of being able 
to aim and shoot with the sun in their backs while 
the Fo-Fums had the light in their eyes. 

The Fo-Fum men were not greatly disturbed 
by this, for several reasons, because they were 
used to conceding the advantage in beginning a 
fight, because knowing the Huns had the wings 
of them it was no use trying to avoid it, and 
because they were contentedly sure that there 
were so many beastly Huns there they couldn't 
all keep "in the sun" and that each man would 
easily find a target sufficiently out of it. They 
continued their "giddy-go-round," and a dozen 
of the Huns at top speed, with engines full out 
and machine-guns rattling and ripping out a 
storm of tracer bullets in streaking pencil-lines 
of flame and blue smoke, came hurtling down like 
live thunderbolts. The sight alone might well 
have been a terrifying one to the Fo-Fum men, 
and the sharp, whip-like smacks and cracks about 
them of the explosive bullets which began to find 
their mark on fabric or frame would also have 
been upsetting to any but the steadiest nerves. 

But the Fo-Fums showed not the slightest 
sign of panicky nerves. They held their fire 



THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 123 

until the diving Huns were within reasonable 
shoot-to-hit range, and met them with a sharp 
burst of fire from observers' or pilots' guns as 
the position of each machine in the circle gave 
a field of fire ahead or anywhere in a full half- 
circle round to port, stern, or starboard. 

It may help matters to explain here — and 
again it tells nothing to the Hun that he doesn't 
already know well and to his sorrow — that the 
fighting Fo-Fum mounts three machine-guns — 
one, which the pilot handles, shooting ahead; 
another which the observer, sitting in front of 
the pilot and to the side of the pilot's gun, shoots 
anywhere outward in a half-circle round the 
bow and in any forward direction down or up; 
and a third placed on the top plane, which 
the observer also shoots by jumping up from his 
bow gun, standing almost man-high clear of the 
" gun'l " of the machine's body, and aiming 
up or level outward to either side and astern. 

In meeting the attacking dive the observers 
stood up to their top guns, and if their position 
in the Flight's circle allowed them to bring their 
gun to bear on an enemy, they opened fire. If 
the machine was full bow on to the rush the pilot 
fired; or if she was in such a position that he 
could not see a target sufficiently ahead, or the 
observer see sufficiently to the side, he dodged 
the machine in or out of the circle enough to 
bring one of the guns to bear, and then wheeled 
her back into position. 

These tacties may sound complicated, but 
really are — so the Fo-Fums say — beautifully 



124 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 

simple when you know them and are used to 
them. What they amount to is merely the fact 
that all six machines were able to open fire 
within a second or two of one another, and that 
in some cases the pilot was able to get in a second 
burst from his bow gun by dipping his nose down 
after a hostile as she plunged past. 

That they were effective tactics was promptly 
demonstrated to the Huns by one of their 
machines bursting into flames, another rolling 
over sideways and " dead-leafing " down in a 
series of side-to-side slips which ended in a crash 
on the ground below, and by another continuing 
his dive well down, changing it into a long glide 
to the eastward and out of the fight, evidently 
with machine or pilot out of action. Several 
of the Fo-Fums had bullet-holes in their 
machines, but nothing vital was touched, and 
they had just time to connect up nicely into their 
compact circle when the remainder of the Huns 
came tearing down on them in similar terrifying 
fashion. 

But the Fo-Fums met them in their similar 
fashion, and when the Huns, instead of diving 
past and down as the first lot had done, curved 
up in an abrupt zoom, the observers swung 
their gun-muzzles up after them and pelted them 
out of range. One Hun lost control just on the 
point of his upward zoom, flung headlong out 
until he stalled and fell out of the fight for good. 
From the fact that his gun continued to fire at 
nothing until he was lost to notice it was evident 
either that his gear was damaged or the pilot 



THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION, 125 

hit and unconsciously gripping or hanging to the 
trigger or firing mechanism. A fourth Hun at 
the top of his zoom up lurched suddenly, fell 
away in a spinning nose dive, and also vanished 
from the proceedings — whether " crashed " or 
merely T out of control " was never known. 

In a fight against this sort of odds, which our 
pilots so often have, the need of keeping an eye 
on active enemies rather than on the subsequent 
interesting fashion of an out-of-control's finish 
certainly reduces our air men's score a good deal, 
since it is the rule only to claim and record 
officially as a " crash " a machine which is 
actually seen (and confirmed) to have smashed 
on the ground, to have broken in air, or other- 
wise have made a sure and positive finish. Five 
Huns down and definitely out of action was a 
good beginning to the fight, especially as no 
Fo-Fum was damaged, and the odds were now 
reduced to fifteen against six — quite, according 
to the Fo-Fums, usual and reasonably sporting 
odds. 

But the odds were to lengthen to such an 
extent that even the seasoned and daring 
fighters of No. Umpty Squadron began to look 
grave and feel concerned. Two Flights came 
looming up rapidly from eastward, and, occupied 
as the Fo-Fums were with the first brush, the 
new enemies were upon them almost the instant 
the second rush on them finished — before, in 
fact, the first Huns shot down and hit the ground. 
The newcomers converged on the fight and 
dashed straight at the Fo-Fum circle without a 



126 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 

pause. There were twelve of them in one lot 
and eight in the other, and that, added to the 
twenty the Fo-Fums had counted at the begin- 
ning of the fight, made a total of forty machines 
against their six. 

After this the tale of the fight can no longer 
be told as a whole. It developed into a series 
of rushes and dives on the part of the enemy in 
large or small numbers, swift leaps and turns 
and twists, and plunges and checks, repeated hot 
attacks and attempts by the Huns to break 
the Fo-Fums' steady circle, determined and 
fairly successful efforts of the Fo-Fums to foil 
the attempts. For long minute after minute 
the fight swayed and scattered, flung apart, out 
and down and up, climbed and fell and closed 
in again to point-blank quarters. It ran raging 
on and on in a constant fierce rattle and roll of 
machine-gun fire, a falling out, one fashion or 
another, of Hun after Hun, in occasional desper- 
ate fights of single Fo-Fums forced out of the 
circle and battling to return to it. 

Some of these single-handed combats against 
odds are worthy subjects for an air saga, each 
to its individual self. There was, for instance, 
the Fo-Fum which was forced out of the circle, 
cut off, and fought a lone-hand battle against 
eleven enemies. The observer stood and shot 
over his top plane at one Hun who tried to 
cover himself behind the tail of the Fo-Fum. 
The pilot at the same instant was lifting the nose 
a little to bring his gun to bear on another Hun 
diving on him from ahead, and this sinking of the 



THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 127 

Fo-Fum's stern gave the observer a chance. He 
filled it with a quick burst from his machine-gun, 
and filled the Hun so effectively full of bullets 
that his nose dropped and he swooped under 
the Fo-Fum. The observer jumped down to 
his bow gun, swung the muzzle down, and caught 
the Hun passing under with a burst which finished 
him and sent him whirling down out of control. 

The pilot's shooting at the same time was 
equally effective. The Hun who had dived on 
his right front was met by a quick turn which 
brought the bow gun to bear and a short burst 
of fire. The Hun continued to dive past and 
under, and both pilot and observer caught a 
flashing but clear-imprinted picture of the Hun 
pilot collapsed in a heap on his seat before he 
also fell helplessly rolling and spinning down out 
of the fight. 

The observer, dropping his forward gun as he 
saw his shooting effective, scrambled quickly up 
to his top gun and was just in time to open on 
another Hun not more than twenty feet away 
and with his gun going " nineteen to the dozen, 
and rapping bullets all over the old bus till she's 
as full of holes as a Gray ere cheese," as the 
observer said. He only fired about a "dozen 
rounds — the fight by now had been running long 
enough and hot enough to make economy of 
ammunition a consideration — but some of the 
dozen got home and sent another Hun plunging 
down and out. 

The observer just lifted his eyes from watch- 
ing the" late lamented " and trying to decide 



128 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 

whether he was " outed " or " playing dead," 
in time to catch a glimpse of a black cross streak- 
ing past astern of him. He glued his eyes to 
the sights, jerked his muzzle round after the 
fresh enemy, and just as he swung in a steep 
bank " slapped a hatful of lead into him " and 
saw a strip of the hostile's cowling rip and lift 
and beat flailing back against the struts until 
the enemy shut off engine and glided out. 

The pilot's gun was clattering again, and the 
observer, seeing all clear behind him, turned and 
half jumped, half fell, down into his cockpit as 
the Fo-Fum lay over on her beam-ends in a bank 
that brought her almost sheer on her wing-tip. 
He was just in time to see the pilot's fresh victim 
fall out of control, and dropping the bow gun he 
had grabbed he hoisted himself to his top gun 
again. 

It sounds a little thing when one speaks of all 
this jumping down and scrambling up from one 
gun to another, but it is worth pausing to con- 
sider just what it means. The place the observer 
had to jump from at his top gun was about as 
scanty and precarious as a canary bird's perch; 
the space he had to jump or fall down into was 
little bigger than a respectable hip-bath; the 
floor and footholds on which he did these gym- 
nastics were heaving, pitching, and tossing, 
tilting to and fro at anything between level, a 
slope as steep as a sharp-angled roof, and steeper 
still to near the perpendicular. 

And all the time the machine which carried 
out the acrobatic performance was travelling 



THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 129 

at the speed of a record-breaking express train, 
and if the performer mis-jumped or over- 
reached the enclosing sides of his cockpit, sides 
little more than knee-high as he stood on the 
floor, not ankle-high as he stood at the top gun, 
he had a clear eight to ten thousand feet, a good 
mile and quarter, to fall before he hit the ground. 
And this particular Fo-Fum stood on her head 
or her tail, on one wing-tip or the other, dived 
and dodged, twisted and turned and wriggled 
and fought her way through, over, under, and 
about her eleven opponents, putting four well 
down and a fifth damaged in the process, and 
picked up her place in the shifting, breaking, 
and ragged, but always reforming, circle. 

The fight flared on for full forty minutes, and 
still at the end of that time the Fo-Fums were all 
afloat and able to make home and a good 
landing, although some were so shot about and 
damaged that it was only by a marvel of pilot- 
ing skill they were kept going — and, let it be 
added, as their crews never failed to add, because 
they were stout buses well and honestly 
built of good material by skilled and careful 
hands, driven by engines that were a credit to 
the shops they came from and would "keep 
running as strong as a railway locomotive, into 
Hell and out the other side, s'long's you fed oil 
and petrol to 'em." 

One machine had the oil tank shot through, 
and yet the engine ran long enough without 
" seizing up" (melting the dry metal by friction 
to sticking point) to get home. There were 



130 THE FO-FUM'S REPUTATION 

other mechanical miracles — too technical for 
explanation here — that the pilots tell of with 
wonder and admiration, although they say little, 
or at most or no more than a mild "good man" 
or "sporting effort" of the equal or greater 
miracle of men enduring and keeping their wits 
and stout hearts, and carrying on, whole or 
wounded as some were — one observer to his death 
soon after landing — for that forty minutes' 
savage fight against odds. Full forty minutes, 
and at the end of that time there were only some 
score Huns left in the fight: and in the finish it 
was they who broke off the action, and slid out 
and away down wind. 

"Y'see," as the Flight Leader said after when 
he was asked why he didn't pull out or battle 
his way out and home, "Y'see, the old Fo-Fums 
are pretty well known on this slice of front, and 
they've got a reputation for never chucking a 
scrap. I'd have hated to come plungin' home 
with a crowd of Huns hare-in' after us. The line 
'ud think we'd been runnin' away from a scrap; 
and I wouldn't like my Flight to be letting down 
the old Fo-Fums' reputation like that." 

Most people will admit that the Flight didn't 
let it down. There are even a good manj' - who 
think it added a good-sized gilt-edged leaf to the 
Fo-Fums' and the Umpty Squadron's plentiful 
laurels. 



XI 

LIKE GENTLEMEN 

When Lieutenant Jack Smith, new come from 
a year of life in the trenches and reserve billets, 
landed for a day or two's stay with his brother 
in one of the squadrons of the R.F.C., he began 
to think he had strayed into an earthly Paradise, 
was amazed that such an excellent substitute for 
well-found civilised life could exist in the Field. 

He got the first shock when he arrived at the 
'drome about 8.30 a.m. and found his brother 
still comfortably asleep. While his brother got 
up and dressed he explained that, the Division 
being out on rest near by, he had taken a chance 
of the long-standing invitation to come and spend 
a day or two with the Squadron; and while 
he talked his eyes kept wandering round the 
comfortable hut — the bookcase, the framed 
pictures on the walls, the table and easy-chair, 
the rugs on the floor, all the little touches of 
comfort — luxury, he called them to himself — 
about the place. 

"You're pretty snugly fixed up here, aren't 
you, Tom?" he burst out at last. 

"So, so!" said Tom, pouring a big jug of hot 
131 



.132 LIKE GENTLEMEN 

water into the wash-basin — hot water, thought 
Jack Smith, not only for shaving, but to wash in. 
" Being Flight Commander, I have a shack to 
myself, y'see. Most of the pilots share huts. 
We'll fix a bed here for you to sleep. Hullo, 
quarter-past nine! I must hurry — won't be 
any breakfast left. You had brek?" 

"Two hours ago," said his brother "We 
don't lie in bed till afternoon, like you chaps." 

Tom laughed. "Not my turn for dawn 
patrol," he said; "I'll be on to-morrow. My 
Flight's due to go up at noon to-day." And he 
went on outlining the methods of their work. 

In the Mess they found half a dozen other 
pilots finishing breakfast. "My brother Jack 
— going to spend a day or two with us" — was 
introduced, and in ten minutes found himself 
pleasantly at home amongst the others. He 
began to forget he was at the Front at all, and 
the attentive waiter at his elbow helped heighten 
the illusion. "Tea or coffee sir? . . . Porridge, 
sir?" 

Jack had porridge, and fresh milk with it and 
his tea. Fresh milk — and he'd nearly forgotten 
milk came from anything but a tin! Then he 
had a kipper — not out of a tin, either — and bacon 
and eggs and toast and marmalade. It was his 
second breakfast, but he did it full justice. 

After breakfast he went out with Tom to the 
hangars, and had a look over the machines and 
pottered round generally until after eleven. 
Then Tom went off to get ready for patrol, and 
handed him over to "Jerry," one of the pilots. 



LIKE GENTLEMEN 133 

Jack spent a fascinating hour watching the patrol 
start, and then being taken round by Jerry, who 
was bubbling over with eagerness to show and 
explain and tell him everything. 

Then they had lunch, and again Jack was led 
to forgetfulness that he was at the Front. Sitting 
there with a dozen happy, laughing, chatting 
companions at a table spread with a spotless 
cloth, with a variety of food and drinks to choose 
from, with no sound of guns or any other echo 
of war in his ears except the occasional hum of 
a plane overhead — and that was pleasant and 
musical rather than warlike — he felt and said he 
might as well be in a long-established Mess in 
barracks at home. 

After lunch he sat in the ante-room with the 
others round the big, open fireplace and smoked 
a cigarette and skimmed the plentiful weeklies 
until Tom's Flight was about due in. Jerry 
picked him up again and took him out and showed 
him the Flight when they were pin-points in the 
sky, and explained the process of landing as they 
came in. 

Jack found his brother's machine had brought 
home several bullet-holes, and he was oddly 
thrilled at sight of them — oddly, because he 
thought he was completely blase about bullet- 
holes and similar signs of battle. 

Tom made very little of it, merely saying Yes, 
they'd had a scrap, had crashed one Hun and 
put another couple down out of control; and 
who was on for an hour on the canal? 

Jack went to the canal with them, and found 



134 LIKE GENTLEMEN 

they had there a wonderful boat built by the 
pilots out of planks they had " found." The 
boat held two comfortably, four uncomfortably, 
and on this occasion carried seven. They fooled 
away a couple of hours very happily and school- 
boyishly, landed, and went back at a jog-trot 
to the 'drome. The wind had changed and they 
could hear the guns now, heavily engaged, by 
the sound of them. 

They were back just in time to see a patrol go 
up, and Tom hurried Jack out to watch. "We've 
got another Squadron's Major here, staying to 
dinner to-night, and the patrol is taking off in 
a fancy formation that's our own special patent. 
It's worth watching. Come along." 

It was worth watching, although Jack, per- 
haps, was not sufficiently educated in air work 
to appreciate it properly. The Flight was drawn 
up in line facing into the wind, and, after a pre- 
liminary run up of their engines, a signal was 
given, six pairs of chocks jerked simultaneously 
clear of the wheels, and the six machines began 
to taxi forward over the ground, still keeping 
in line. 

Their speed increased until they were racing 
with tails up, and then, suddenly, the whole six 
lifted together and took the air, keeping their 
straight line and climbing steadily. The right- 
hand machine swept round to the right, and one 
after another the rest followed him, each banking 
steeply and, as it seemed from the ground, heel- 
ing over until their wings stood straight up and 
down. As they straightened they opened out 



LIKE GENTLEMEN 135 

and dropped into their places, and the Flight 
swept circling round above the 'drome in correct 
and exajctly-spaced formation. 

" Pretty good show," said Tom critically. 

" Y<?u wouldn't understand rightly, Jack, but 
it's a fancy stunt we've never heard of another 
squadron being able to do. Sheer swank, of 
course, I'll admit, but rather sport." 

Later, Jack was able to appreciate better what 
the " stunt " was worth from the admiring and 
amazed comments of the much-impressed visiting 
Major. 

Tea followed, and after it the pilots drifted off 
to such occupations or amusements as they 
desired. Some lounged in the ante-room, with 
the gramophone singing, whistling, and band 
playing; others went off to the hangars to see 
to something being done to their machines, 
engines, or guns; others vanished into their 
huts, and, reappearing stripped, began strenuous 
work on a punching-ball or disappeared over the 
surrounding fields on a cross-country run. The 
brothers wandered round, and finished an idle 
hour with a brisk turn at the punching-ball. 

" Gets a good sweat up," explained Tom, 
" and helps keep you in condition. That's the 
curse of this job — not getting any exercise unless 
you do something of this sort." 

" Curse of it! " said Jack enviously. " Blest 
if I see much of a curse of any sort about it. It's 
amazing to think anybody can be in the middle 
of a big push in this war and be able to have 
such a ripping fine time of it." 



136 LIKE GENTLEMEN 

Tom laughed. " Our CO. always swears this 
is the only end of the old war where a man is 
able to live like a gentleman and fight like a 
gentleman," he said. " And I don't know he 
isn't right." 

" It's the only side I've seen where you can," 
agreed Jack. " You certainly live like gentle- 
men, anyhow." 

" Oh, it's gentlemanly enough fighting, too," 
said Tom. " Anyhow, you do go out to scrap 
with your face washed and a clean shirt to your 
back, and come straight home to a hot bath 
inside half an hour after, if you like. And in 
the actual fighting it's clean scrapping — putting 
your skill against the other fellow's, and the best 
man winning, as a rule. None of your blind 
floundering through mud and shell-fire for me, 
thank'ee, and getting scuppered without a notion 
who did it or how you got it." 

That evening they changed for dinner, Tom 
lending a pair of slacks to his brother. " Might 
as well," said Tom. " Not that it matters about 
you, because I could tell the CO. you didn't 
bring kit. But he likes everyone to dress pro- 
perly for Mess, and so do we all. Dunno he isn't 
right, too. Now, will you bath first, or shall I? " 

The bath arrangements were explained to him 
— the bath being a curtained-off corner of the 
hut with hot water in a canvas bath on the floor 
and a shower operated by pulling a string to a 
tank on the roof. 

" We're having the band for dinner to-night," 
said Tom, as they dressed. " We rather pride 



LIKE GENTLEMEN 137 

ourselves on our band, y'know; eleven instru- 
ments, and all real good performers picked up 
all over the shop, and in the Squadron as batmen 
or mechanics or something. Lots of 'em were 
part or whole professionals in civvy life." 

" I feel as if I were going to a ball or a ban- 
quet or a box at the opera or something," said 
Jack, as they walked down to the Mess — " I feel 
so amazing clean and groomed and sleek. And 
you lucky beggars have this any old night, and 
right in the middle of the war, too! " 

The evening " put the tin hat on it " as he 
said. There was a champagne cocktail before 
dinner, and then the Major led the way into a 
Mess that made Jack blink his eyes. The table 
down the centre was big enough to take the whole 
score of diners and of generous enough width 
to allow of stretched legs without kicking oppo- 
site shins and toes. It was covered with a spot- 
less cloth, glittering cutlery, and shining glass, 
and down the centre were shaded electrics and 
vases made from polished brass shell-cartridges 
filled with flowers. The CO. sat at the head of 
the table with the Major-guest on the one side 
and Jack on the other with his brother beside 
him. There was a full-course dinner most excel- 
lently cooked and served, and there was almost 
any drink available you liked to call for, although 
Jack noticed that his brother and most of the 
others drank fresh-made lemonade or something 
of the sort. 

" It's one thing you have to cut out pretty 
well," explained Tom. " This game doesn't leave 



138 LIKE GENTLEMEN 

room for men with anything but steady nerves, 
and most of us find little or no liquor and not 
too much smoking gives you the longest life and 
gets the most Huns. We're all out for the most 
Huns, y'see, and pushing up the Squadron's 
record. Over the hundred crashed in under six 
months now and we want to pile it up. There's 
hardly a man here hasn't got anything from two 
to a dozen a-piece." 

" Doesn't seem to sit on their consciences," 
said Jack, looking round the table of happy 
faces and listening to the chatter and laughter 
that ran steadily through the dinner. Out in the 
ante-room the band played light and cheerful 
music. 

" Some band," said Jack admiringly in answer 
to a remark from the CO. " Good as a West 
End Theatre; makes me want to get up and 
dance," tapping his foot in time to the alluring 
rag that the music had just slid off into. 

" You people evidently believe in the c eat, 
drink and be merry, for to-morrow, etcetera ' 
theory," said the visiting Major. 

"■ Why not? " said the CO. quickly. " Let's 
live decently while we can, I say. We're all 
proud of the Squadron, and all keen to do the 
best we can to make it the best in the Field, in 
living, and feeding, and comfort — and fighting. 
And the theory seems to work all right." 

" Looking at your record," said the other 
Major, " it does." 

They were at the second course, when half a 
dozen pilots came in in ones and twos, went to 



LIKE GENTLEMEN 139 

the head of the table and made their formal 
apologies for being late, and went to their seats. 
They were the evening patrol, and the Leader 
took his place near the Major's end of the table. 

" Anything doing to-night? " asked the Major 
when the Captain had been served and com- 
menced his soup. 

" Quite a brisk scrap," said the Captain pro- 
ceeding industriously with his soup. " That's 
what made us so late. Chased a bunch of four- 
teen Albatrii and had twenty minutes' scrapping 
with them." 

" Get any? " asked the Major. 

" Two crashes and three down out of control. 
Jerry got one crash and I got the other. Makes 
the Squadron tally a hundred and seven, doesn't 
it?" 

" Yes, good work," said the CO., and called 
down the table " I hear you bagged another 
to-night, Jerry. How many does that make? " 

" Hundred and seven to the Squadron, sir," 
said Jerry, " and eight to me." 

The Flight Leader, hurrying his dinner to 
catch up to the others, went on to tell some bald 
details of the fight. Jack sat drinking it in, 
although it was rather a technical and air-slangy 
account for him to understand properly, and all 
the time he could not get it out of his mind how 
extraordinary it was that this man and the others 
who half an hour ago had been fighting for their 
lives, shooting men down, hearing (and seeing 
as he gathered from the story) bullets crack past, 
tearing home at a hundred and odd miles an 



140 LIKE GENTLEMEN 

hour with the reek and roar of a big battle be- 
neath them, with shells puffing and coughing 
about them as they flew, should now be sitting, 
washed, bathed, cleanly and comfortably dressed, 
at a full-course dinner, with flowers on the table 
and a good band playing outside. He had seen 
plenty of fighting himself, but with such a differ- 
ence, with such a prolonged misery of short sleep, 
scratch meals, hard physical work, living in mud 
and filth and dirt and stench, under constant 
fear of death or mutilation, that this air-fighting 
appeared by contrast — well, the CO. had it right, 
" living and fighting like gentlemen." 

The port went round, followed by the coffee, 
cigarettes, and liqueurs, the niceties of Mess 
etiquette, Jack noticed, being very punctiliously 
observed, and no man touching his port or light- 
ing his cigarette before the Major touched and lit 
his, none moving from the table until after the 
port had been round, and so on. The evening 
finished with a couple of very jolly hours in the 
ante-room where the gramophone took the 
place of the band in alternate turns with musical 
pilots at the piano. A group hung round the 
open fireplace chatting and joking, another 
round the piano where one pilot played musical 
pranks, sang topical air songs, and played 
seductive melodies that set half a dozen couples 
" ragging " round the room, and two or three 
tables collected for Bridge and Poker. 

Jack, revelling in the comfort and pleasant- 
ness of the whole thing, was haled at last by 
Jerry into a set for Bridge, and played for an 



LIKE GENTLEMEN 141 

hour just the sort of game he liked — good enough 
to be interesting, free and easy and talkative 
enough not to be stiff and boringly businesslike. 

He was very thoughtful as he undressed for 
bed — a comfortable camp bed, with a soft pillow, 
and pyjamas — and Tom looked at him with a 
glimmer of a smile. 

"Wondering if you'll put in for a transfer 
to Flying Corps ?" he asked. 

Jack was a little startled. 

"Well, something like that — yes," he ad- 
mitted. "You do seem to have such a ripping 
good time of it, and right bang in the war, too. 
It's amazing." 

"'Tisn't all pie, all the time, y'know," said 
his brother seriously. "Pretty strenuous at 
times." 

Jack grunted scornfully, with his mind on 
what strenuous times in the line meant. 

"We'll talk it over to-morrow," said Tom. 
"Must get a sleep now. I'm on dawn patrol." 

Next day was very much like the first, and 
Jack felt the inclination grow to consider a 
transfer to this life of luxury and ease. j 

But the afternoon brought a new side of air 
work to him. The remains of a patrol — three 
machines out of six — straggled home with 
riddled machines and the tale of a hot fight. 
Jack gathered and sorted out and had interpre- 
tations of the involved and technical details, 
and they made his blood run hot and cold in 
turn. The six had fought a big formation of 
fifteen to twenty Huns, fought them fast and 



142 LIKE GENTLEMEN 

fiercely for a good fifteen minutes, had crashed 
five certainly and put others down without having 
time to watch their end, had routed and driven 
east the remainder of the formation. But they 
had lost two men crashed. One had his top 
petrol tank holed and the top plane set on fire. 
He was low down and fighting two Huns, and 
he might with luck have dived down and made 
a landing in Hunland. He preferred instead 
to take one more Hun down with him and lessen 
the odds against his fellows, had deliberately 
flung his machine on the nearest enemy, crashed 
into him, and went hurtling down, the two 
locked together and wrapped in roaring flames. 

Another had his engine hit, but with water 
spraying out from his radiator fought on and 
finished his individual combat, and put his Hun 
down before he attempted to turn out and make 
for the lines. He had flown long enough after 
receiving the damage to make it a matter of 
speculation whether his engine could get him 
home or not, but he flung away this last chance 
by turning aside from his homeward flight and 
throwing away a couple of thousand feet of 
height to dive in to the assistance of another of 
our machines hard beset by four enemies. One 
of these he crippled and drove down, and another 
his divers on gave a quick chance to the hard- 
pressed pilot to shoot down and crash. But the 
damaged engine by now was done, and the pilot 
could only turn his nose for the lines and try to 
glide back. 

One of the hostiles saw his chance, drove after 



LIKE GENTLEMEN 143 

him, dropped on his tail, pouring in burst after 
burst of fire, hung to him and followed him down 
in the; spin which was evidently the last desperate 
attempt to win clear, finally shot him down and 
crashed him as he flattened out. 

A third pilot had been badly wounded by a 
burst of bullets which had riddled and smashed 
one arm. He, too, might have pulled out and 
escaped; and he, too, hung on fighting to the 
end; flew his machine lurching and swerving 
home, landed, fainted, and died from loss of 
blood before the tourniquet was well on his arm. 

A fourth, with a bullet-shattered foot, stayed 
in the fight and took another wound in the 
shoulder, and still fought on, saw it out, and 
came home — and went off to the Casualty Clear- 
ing Station with a laugh and a jest on his lips 
and the certainty in his heart that he was going 
to lose his foot or carry it mutilated and useless 
for life. But he refused to go until notes had 
been compared and he could be told their bag of 
Huns and the total it brought the Squadron up to. 

What hit Jack hardest was that his new but 
firm friend Jerry was one of those crashed. And 
only an hour or two before he had been talking 
with Jerry and planning and taking his advice 
about joining up with the R.F.C., how to apply 
and how to get quickly through his training, and 
ways of wangling it to get to this Squadron — 
and — jumping far into the future — how he, 
Jerry, would put him up to any amount of fight- 
ing tips, and how to get your Hun and keep a 
whole skin and pile the Squadron's record up. 



144 LIKE GENTLEMEN 

It had all sounded so good to Jack, and now 
— Jerry was gone, had fought his las*, fight, 
had died the death within an hour of his last 
laughing word to Jack on the 'drome, had 
flung himself flaming into a collision with his 
enemy and paid out his life for one more crashed 
Hun to the Squadron's tally. And the other 
one lost, the boy who had thrown away his 
chance by diving with a " conking" engine to 
help a friend, was the same boy who had fooled 
at the piano, had kept them all giggling and 
chuckling at his jokes and chaff at lunch that 
day; and then had gone out and played a man's 
grim part and sacrificed himself to give a friend 
a fighting chance. 

That night Jack talked to his brother and told 
him he'd made up his mind to put in for an 
exchange. "Yes, Jerry told me all that — poor 
old Jerry," he said, when Tom warned him he'd 
been seeing the best side of the life in that 
particular Squadron, that they were rather a — 
well, swanky lot if you liked, but believed in 
doing themselves well; that any other Squad- 
ron he might go to might be much less particular 
about how they lived and might rough it a lot 
more. (Which, by the way, is very true; and 
there are many men who have lived in Squad- 
rons at the Front for many months may scoff 
at this description of Squadron life as rank 
exaggeration. It is not, as others can testify.) 

Jack heard it all out, but did not alter his 
determination. 

"Whatever Squadron it is you admit they 



LIKE GENTLEMEN 145 

live better than we do in the line," he said, 
"and anyhow that's not my point now. I'd 
like to get even a bit with some of that crowd 
who downed poor Jerry." 

"It is better than the line," admitted his 
brother, "and whatever the Squadron, at least 
we live decently and fight fairly and squarely." 

"Yes," said Jack, "your C.O.'s right — live 
and fight — and, by the Lord," he added warmly, 
his mind on that day's fight, his two friends and 
the manner of their end, "he might have added 
'die' — like gentlemen." 



XII 

"AIR ACTIVITY'' 

That "air activity/ ' so frequently reported 
and so casually read in the despatches, means a 
good deal more than "fleets of aeroplanes dark- 
ening the sky," machines dashing and flashing 
around anywhere up to their "ceiling" of 
twenty odd thousand feet, shooting holes in and 
crashing each other, bombing and photographing 
and contact-patrolling and ground-strafing, and 
all the rest of it. 

There is just as much "air" activity, or if 
you measure by hours, from two to ten times as 
much, amongst those men whose sole occupation 
in life is pushing other people into the air and 
keeping them there until they wish to come down, 
and who never have their own two feet off the 
firm earth. The outsider hardly thinks of this, 
and there are even a few pilots — a very few, as 
one is glad to know — who are apt to forget it, 
while the great majority of the others don't or 
can't very well make much show of their appre- 
ciation of or gratitude for the sheer hard labour 
of the groundwork in a Squadron that keeps 
them afloat. I know that most pilots will be 
glad to have even this one little bit of the lime- 

146 



"AIR ACTIVITY" 147 

light turned on a class of men who deserve a 
good deal more than they get. 

No. 00 Squadron broke into the Air Activity 
period a full week before the Push began on the 
ground, but a certain amount of "dud weather" 
gave the pilots some intervening spells of rest 
and gave the Squadron mechanics a chance to 
catch up and keep level with their work. But 
in the last few days before the Push was dated 
to begin, the air work became more strenuous, 
because the Huns, evidently suspecting that 
something was coming off, set their air service 
to work trying to push over and see what was 
going on behind our lines, and to prevent our 
air men picking up information behind theirs. 
No. 00 was a single-seater fighting Squadron, 
and so was one of the ots whose mission in life 
was to down any Huns who came over to recon- 
noitre or spot for their guns, and, conversely, 
to patrol over Hunland and put out of action 
as many as possible of the Hun fighters who 
were up to sink our machines doing artillery 
observing or photographing. The more machines 
one side can put and keep in the air the better 
chance that side has of doing its work and pre- 
venting the opposition doing theirs — it is a pity 
many aircraft workers even now don't seem to 
understand the value of this sheer weight of 
numbers — and since both sides by this time were 
using their full air strength it meant that No. 00, 
like all the rest, was kept flying the maximum 
number of hours machines and pilots could stand. 

As the work speeded up the strain grew on 



148 "AIR ACTIVITY" 

pilots and machines, which also means on the 
mechanics. Some of the planes came home with 
bullet-holed fabrics, shot-through frames, and 
damaged engines. All the holes had to be 
patched, all the frames had to be mended, all 
the engines had to be repaired. The strain and 
pressure on a flimsy structure being hurtled 
through the air at speeds running from 100 to 
200 miles per hour is bound to result in a certain 
amount of working loose of parts, stretching of 
stays, slackening of fabrics, give and take in 
nuts and bolts, yielding and easing of screws; 
and since the pilot's and the machine's life and 
the Squadron's efficiency alike depend on every 
one of the hundreds of parts in a machine's 
anatomy being taut and true, or free and easy- 
running, as the case may be, the mechanics began 
to find a full normal day's work merely in the 
overhauling and setting up of the machines, 
apart altogether from fight-damage repairs. 

Two days before the Push began the mechanics 
put in a hard working day of fifteen hours out 
of the twenty-four; the day before the Push 
they started at 6 a.m. and finished at 1 a.m. next 
morning — and with the first patrols due to start 
out at dawn. But they finished with every 
machine trued to a hair-line, braced and strung 
to a perfection of rigidity, with engines running 
as sweet as oil, and giving their limit of revolu- 
tions without a hint of trouble, with every single 
item about them overhauled, examined, adjusted 
and tested as exhaustively and completely as if 
a life hung on the holding of every bolt, brace, 



"AIR ACTIVITY" 149 

and screw, the smooth, clean working of every 
plug, piston, and tappet — as, indeed, a life would 
hang that day. 

The weather report of the day was not good, 
but a good half hour before dawn the mechanics 
had the machines out in line and the pilots were 
straggling out swaddled in huge leather coats, 
sheepskin-lined thigh boots, furred helmets and 
goggled masks. But before they arrived the 
mechanics had been out a full hour, putting the 
final touches to the machines, warming up the 
engines — for it was near enough to winter for 
the cold- weather nights to make an engine 
sulky and tricky to start — giving a last look 
round to everything. 

The first two Flights went off before dawn, 
and the third an hour after them. The 
mechanics walked back into the empty hangars 
which, after the bustle of the last few days 
seemed curiously dead and desolate, and then to 
their waiting breakfasts. 

For some of them the respite was short. Ten 
minutes after the last lot of machines had gone 
there was a shout for " A " Flight men. They 
hurried out to find the CO. and the Flight Ser- 
geant standing together watching a machine 
drive slowly up against the wind towards the 
'drome. Plainly something was wrong with 
her; she had an air of struggling, of fighting for 
her life, of being faint and weary and almost 
beaten. It was hard to say what gave her this 
curious look of a ship with decks awash and on 
the point of foundering, of a boxer staggering 



150 "AIR ACTIVITY" 

about the ring and trying to keep his feet. It 
may have been the propeller running so slowly 
that it could be clearly seen, or the fact that she 
was losing height almost as fast as she was 
making way; but whatever it was, it was un- 
mistakable. 

As she drew near to the edge of the landing 
ground it was evident that it would be a toss-up 
whether she made it or touched ground in a 
patch of rough, uncleared field. The mechanics 
set off, running at top speed to where she was 
going to touch; the CO. and the Flight Sergeant 
followed close behind them. They saw the pilot 
make one last effort to lift her and clear a sunk 
road and bank that ran along the edge of the 
landing ground. He lifted her nose, . . . and she 
almost stalled and fell; he thrust her nose down 
again, . . . and she hung, . . . lurched, . . . slid 
forward and in to the bank. Would she clear 
. . . would she ... 

Then, in an instant, it was over. The wheels 
just caught the edge of the bank, her tail jerked 
up and her nose down, . . . and the runners heard 
the splintering crash of her breaking under- 
carriage, of her " prop " hitting and shivering 
to matchwood, her fabrics ripping and tearing. 
She stood straight up on her nose, heeled over, 
and fell on her side with fresh noises of crackling, 
tearing, and splintering from her wrecked wings. 
Up to now the runners had thought of the 
machine, but in the instant of her hitting, their 
thoughts jumped to the pilot and — would he 
smash with her, or would the wreck catch fire? 



'•'AIR ACTIVITY" 151 

But before they reached the piled tangle of wood 
and fabrie they saw a figure crawl out from under 
it, stand upright, and mechanically brush the 
dirt from his knees. They found he was un- 
touched. 

" Got a bullet in her engine somewhere, sir," 
he told the Major. " I caught a fair old dose 
from the machine-guns, and had the planes 
riddled; then this one got her, and I couldn't 
get my revs., and thought I'd better push her 
home. Poor old 'bus." 

" Another one coming, sir," said the Flight 
Sergeant suddenly, and pointed to a machine 
whirling towards them at a thousand feet up. 
There was nothing wrong with this one, anyhow. 
She roared in over their heads, banked and 
swung, slid down smoothly and gracefully, 
touched and ran and slowed, and came to rest 
with the engine just running. It whirred up 
into speed again and brought her taxi-ing in 
towards the sheds and the mechanics running 
to meet her. The Major and the pilot, walking 
back towards the sheds, were talking of the 
show: " Something terrifi 7 ., sir — never saw such 
a blaze of a barrage — and the place fair stiff 
with machine-guns. Yes, crowds of Huns — and 
ours — hardly pick a way without bumping — I 
put a good burst into one Albatross — didn't 
see " 

The Major interrupted: " Can you make out 
the letter — ah, there, ' K,' " as the machine, 
taxi-ing into the sheds, slewed, and they saw the 
big " K " on her side. 



152 "AIR ACTIVITY" 

" 'The Kiddie/ " said the pilot. " Morton's 
'bus. Seemed to be running strong enough." 

They quickened their pace, the Major with a 
growing fear that turned to certainty, as they 
saw men come from the sheds, clamber up on the 
machine, stoop over the pilot, and begin to lift 
him. 

They found Morton hit in the foot and badly. 
But before he was well clear of the machine he 
v/as laughing and asking for a cigarette. " Yes, 
I stopped one, Major; but it doesn't feel too 
bad. Hullo, Solly, what's yours? " 

" Engine hit, conked out, crashed her edge of 
the 'drome here," said Solly hurriedly. " I say, 
Major, can I take ' The Kiddie ' and go back? 
I'm all right, and so is she — isn't she, Morton? " 

" Better take a rest," said the Major. " After 
a crash like that " 

But Solly argued, protested so eagerly, that 
the Major gave in. The mechanics bustled and 
swarmed about " The Kiddie," filling the oil 
and petrol tanks, securing her light bombs on 
the racks fitted under her, replacing the expended 
rounds of machine-gun ammunition. And before 
Morton had finished his smoke or had the boot 
and sock cut from his foot, Solly was off. One 
might have imagined " The Kiddie " as eager as 
himself, her engine starting up at the first swing 
of the prop, roaring out in the deep, full-noted 
song that tells of perfect firing and smooth run- 
ning. Solly ran her up, eased off, waved his 
hand to the two men standing holding the long 
cords of the chocks at her wheels. The chocks 



"AIR ACTIVITY" 153 

were jerked clear, " The Kiddie " roared up into 
her top notes again, gathered way, and moved 
out in a sweeping circle that brought her into 
the wind, steadied down, gathered speed again 
across the grass, lifted her tail, and raced another 
hundred yards, rose and hoicked straight up as 
if she were climbing a ladder. At a couple of 
hundred feet up she straightened out and shot 
away flat, and was off down wind like a bullet. 

Then the " air activity " hit the Squadron on 
the ground. A tender and accompanying gang 
sped out to the crashed machine and set about 
the business of picking it up and bringing it 
home; telephone messages buzzed in and out 
of the Squadron office; another tender rolled 
out of the 'drome and started racing " all out " 
with a pilot bound for the Park, where a new 
machine would be handed over to replace the 
crash. 

Before the crashed machine was in, the first 
lot out began to home to the 'drome. One by 
one they swept in, curved, slid down, and slanted 
smoothly on to the ground, and rolled over to 
the hangars. There was hardly one without a 
bullet-hole somewhere in her; there were some 
with scores. Planes were riddled, bracing and 
control wires cut, fuselage fabric and frames 
ripped and holed and cracked, propellers cleanly 
shot through. This was at 8 o'clock — and half 
of them were due to be up again at 1, and the 
others at 2. Every possible arrangement had 
been made for quick repairs and replacements, 
tools laid ready, spares brought out and placed 



154 "AIR ACTIVITY" 

to hand. The mechanics fell on the damaged 
machines like wolves on a sheepfold. Fuselages 
were ripped open, broken wires and controls torn 
out, badly damaged planes unshipped and slung 
aside, snapped and dangling bracing wires 
hurriedly unscrewed, suspected longerons and 
ribs stripped and bared for examination, holed 
or cracked propellers removed. In an hour 
anyone walking into the hangars might have 
thought he was in an airship-breaker's yard, 
and was looking at a collection almost fit for the 
scrap-heap. But at the appointed time the 
machines of the first Flight were ready, although 
it would take a decent-sized booklet to detail 
the nature and method of the repairs and replace- 
ments. 

But every hole in a fabric had been patched, 
spare wing and tail planes had been shipped, 
new wires rove, damaged propellers replaced by 
new ones, fuselage covers laced up, guns examined 
and cleaned. At a quarter to one the pilots 
came from an early lunch and found their 
machines ready, fabrics whole and taut, wires 
and stays tight-strung and braced, engines tuned 
up and ready, everything examined and tried 
and tested, and pronounced safe and fit. And 
" The Kiddie," that had come in a full hour 
after the others, and had several bracing and 
control wires cut, and twenty-seven bullet marks 
to show for her two trips, was amongst the first 
to take off with the others. 

As, one by one, the first Flight went up, the 
men were hard at work on the machines of the 



"AIR ACTIVITY" 155 

second, hoisting up tins of petrol and oil, and 
pouring them into the tanks, reloading the 
bomb-racks, packing away fresh stores of am- 
munition, trying and running up the engines. 

At sharp two the second Flight took off, and 
at three the third (which had also brought home 
a miscellaneous assortment of injuries) followed 
them to the tick of time. But although all three 
Flights were out, the mechanics, with no faintest 
hope of a rest, set hastily about the business of 
mending and repairing those planes and parts 
which had been removed, and were now, or would 
be when they were done with, complete and 
ready spares. 

They kept hard as they could go at it for a 
couple of hours, and then the first Flight began 
to drop in on them. One was missing — "crashed 
in No Man's Land" — another pilot reported, 
" Seemed to go down under control all right," 
and another was lost in Hunland. 

The third Flight had even worse luck. Two 
were missing, nothing known of them, so appar- 
ently lost over the line, and another came circling 
back with her under-carriage swinging and twist- 
ing loose and hanging by a stay. On the ground 
they noticed the casualty, and, fearing the pilot 
might not be aware of the extent of the damage 
and try to land without calculating on it, they 
fired a light and signalled him. 

But it was quickly evident from the caution of 
his manoeuvres that he knew, and he came down 
and pancaked as carefully as he could. He 
crashed, of course, but, as crashes go, not too 



156 "AIR ACTIVITY" 

badly. Everyone was watching hirn with bated 
breath. As he touched the ground — cr-r-rash 
— a tongue of flame licked and flickered, and 
instantly fouph it leaped in a thirty-foot gust of 
fire, dropped, and before the horrified watchers 
could move tongue or foot, blazed up again in a 
roaring, quivering pillar of fire. Then, as some 
scuffled for fire-extinguishers and others ran 
with vague and crazy ideas of dragging the pilot 
out, they saw a figure reel out from behind the 
blaze, throw himself down, and roll on the grass. 
He was burned about the hands and face, 
had a skin-deep cut across his brow, a broken 
little finger — nothing that a few dressings and 
a splint would not make as good as ever. He 
had leaped out as he landed. 

His amazing escape brightened the shadow that 
would have lain on the Squadron Mess that night 
from the loss of the other pilots, and for the hour 
of dinner the talk ran free and mixed with jests 
and bursts of laughter. In the ante-room there 
was another half-hour's talk over the events of 
the day, a medley of air slang about revving, and 
Flaming Onions, and split-arming, and props, 
and mags., and Immelman Turns, and short 
bursts, and Hun-Huns, and conking, and all the 
rest. Then, about 9.30, the pilots began to 
drift off to bed, and at 10.30 the mess rooms were 
clear and the lights out. 

But in the hangars, the armoury, the carpentry 
and machine shops, the electrics were at full 
blaze, the mechanics were hustling and bustling 
for dear life. It grew colder as the night wore 



"AIR ACTIVITY" 157 

on, and by midnight men who had been working 
in shirt-sleeves began to put on their jackets. 
By 2 a.m. they were shivering as they worked, 
especially those blue-lipped and stiff-fingered 
ones who had to stand still over a lathe or sit 
crouched, stitching and fumbling with numb 
fingers at fabric and tape and string. Again the 
hangars were filled with a welter of stripped and 
wrecked-looking outlines of machines, and all 
the apparent lumber of dismantled parts and 
waiting spares. About 3 and 4 a.m. tenders 
began to rumble in on their return from various 
errands, and at 5 orderlies came from the cook- 
house with dixies of hot tea. The Flight Ser- 
geants confabbed and compared notes then and 
sent half the mechanics off to bed and set the 
other half to work again; and by 6 the ma- 
chines were taking decently recognisable shape. 
And at half an hour before dawn again the 
machines of the first Flight were out and 
ready, with engines run up and warmed, and 
tanks full, and ammunition and bombs in 
place, waiting for the shivering pilots stumbling 
out to them in the dark. They were gone before 
the first blink of light paled the gun-flashes in 
the sky, and they were barely gone before there 
came dropping into the 'drome the pilots who 
had gone off the night before to fly in new 
machines to replace the wastage. A second 
Flight went at 9, and then the mechanics, who 
had turned in at 5.30, were turned out again and 
the others sent to bed. They had an even 
shorter spell of rest, because new machines 



158 "AIR ACTIVITY" 

somehow require an appalling amount of woris; 
and overhauling and tuning up before any self- 
respecting Squadron considers them fit to carry 
their pilots. 

All that day the yesterday's performance was 
repeated, with the addition that parties had to 
be sent off in tenders to bring in machines that 
had made forced landings away from the 'drome 
and were unfit to fly home. The mechanics, 
dismissed for an hour at dinner-time and an 
hour at tea-time, spent about ten minutes over 
each meal, and the rest in sleep. They needed 
it, for that night they had no sleep at all, had 
to drive their work to the limit of their speed 
to get the machines ready for the pilots to take 
in the morning. That day there were more 
crashes, mild ones and complete write-offs, and 
it is hard to say which the weary mechanics 
loathed the most. The pilots had amazing luck. 
Man after man was shot down, but managed 
to glide back to our side of the lines, crash his 
machine, crawl out of the splintered wreckage, 
and make his way by devious routes back to the 
Squadron — to take another machine as soon 
as it was ready, and go out again next day. 

For four days this sort of thing continued. 
In that time the mechanics averaged twenty and 
a half hours' driving hard work a day, the shop 
electrics were never out, the lorry-shop lathe, 
with relays running it never ceased to turn; the 
men ate their food at the benches as they worked, 
threw themselves down in corners of the hangars 
and under the benches, and snatched odd hours 



"AIR ACTIVITY" 159 

of sleep between a Flight going out and another 
coming in. 

By the mercy, dud weather came on the fifth 
day, driving rain and blanketting mist, and the 
mechanics — no, not rested, but spurted again 
and cleared up the debris of past days, repaired, 
refitted, and re-rigged their machines in readi- 
ness for the next call, whenever it might come. 
At the finish, about midnight of the fourth day, 
some of them had to be roused from sleeping as 
they stood or sat at their work; one man fell 
asleep as he stood working the forge bellows 
and tumbled backwards into a tub of icy water. 

Then they reeled and stumbled to their beds, 
and again by the grace — since once asleep it is 
doubtful if mortal man could have wakened 
them — the sixth day was also dud, and the 
mechanics slept their fill, which on the average 
was somewhere about the round of the clock. 

By then the fury of the battle assault had 
died down, the Squadron's duties were eased, 
and the mechanics dropped to a normal battle 
routine of fourteen or fifteen hours a day. 

The Air Activity speeded up again after a 
few days of this, and from then on for another 
fortnight the men in the air were putting in two 
and three patrols a day and with some of the 
Artillery Observing machines in the air for four 
and four and a half hours at a time, while the men 
on the ground in the Squadrons were kept at full 
stretch and driving hard night and day to main- 
tain their machines' efficiency. No. 00's me- 
chanics did an average of nineteen to twenty 



160 "AIR ACTIVITY" 

hours work a day for fifteen days, and it is prob- 
able that if the full fact were known so, or nearly 
so, did the mechanics of most of the other 
Squadrons on that front. For, as it always does 
in prolonged fine weather and continued air 
work, the "air supremacy" became much more 
than a matter of the superiority of the fighters 
or fliers, dropped down to a race between the 
German mechanics and our own, their ability 
to stand the pace, to work the longest hours, 
to put in the best and the most work in the least 
time, to keep the most machines fit to take the air. 
The workshops at Home play a bigger and 
much more important part in this struggle 
than ever they have known, and are in fact 
fighting their fight against the German shops 
just as much as their air men are fighting the 
Hun fliers. A constant and liberal supply of 
spares and parts needed for quick repair ob- 
viously cuts down the Squadron's work and 
better enables them to keep pace with the job, 
and time and again in this period the Squadron 
mechanics were forced to work long hours filing 
and hammering and turning and tinkering by 
hand to repair and improvise parts which should 
have been there ready to their hand. As the 
struggle ran on it became plainer day by day 
that our men were gaining the upper iiand, not 
only in the fighting — they can always do that — 
but in the maintenance of machines in the air. 
The number of ours dropped, perhaps, but the 
Huns' dropped faster and faster, until our patrols 
were entirely " top dog." The pilots will be 



"AIR ACTIVITY" 161 

the first to admit the part their mechanics played 
in this victory. 

Through all this strenuous time "The Kiddie," 
for instance, played her full part. Time and 
again her pilot brought her in riddled with 
bullets, with so many controls and flying- and 
landing-wires and struts cut through, that it 
was only because she was in the first place well 
and truly built, and in the second place, so 
keenly and carefully looked after, that Solly 
was able to nurse her back and land her on the 
'drome. And always, no matter how badly 
damaged she came in, she was stripped, over- 
hauled, repaired, and ready for action when the 
time came round for her next patrol; and always 
the work was done so thoroughly and well that 
she went out as good, as reliable, as fit to fly 
for her life, as any 'bus could be. 

In the first week of the show, which was the 
most strenuous period just described, Solly 
Colquhoun got a Military Cross for his share of 
the show, and on first receiving word of it the 
Major sent for him to come to the office, and 
gave him the news and his congratulations. 

"May I borrow the message, sir?" said 
Solly Colquhoun. "I'll bring it back in five 
minutes." 

The Major gave him the telegram. 

"Off you go," he said laughingly. "Off to 
raise the mess, I suppose. Get along. I'll be 
over to wet the Cross with you in a minute. Tell 
the Mess Sergeant to get the fizz ready that I 
had in." 



162 "AIR ACTIVITY" 

But Solly had not gone to rouse the mess. 
He went at a hard trot straight to the Flight 
hangars. 

" Flight," he yelled as he neared them. 
"Fli-i-ght! Where's the Flight Sergeant? Oh, 
here, Flight — I want you and my rigger and my 
fitter. Fetch them quick." 

They came swearing under their breaths. 
"The poor old 'Kiddie' for the air again," 
said the rigger. "Done her whack this trip, 
hasn't she?" returned the fitter. 

"Look here," said Solly abruptly, hardly 
waiting for them to come to a halt before him. 
"Just read that wire, will you? ... I brought it 
straight here. You're the first in the Squadron 
to know. I wanted you to be, and I wanted 
just to say thank you to you fellows for getting 
me this Cross. I know what 'Kiddie' has stood 
up to, and why. I know what you did, . . . and 
. . . well, thank you." 

He shook hands awkwardly but very heartily 
while the men stammered congratulations and 
disclaimers of any reason for thanks. "Must 
beetle off," said Solly. "Promised to take this 
paper over. Tell the other men, will you? A 
Military Cross for our Flight. And thank you 
again." 

He turned to hurry out, but, passing "The 
Kiddie," stabled there with her fore-end swathed 
and blanketted, her sides sleek and glossy and 
shining, taut and trim, spotless and speckless 
as the day she came from her makers, he halted 
and ran a fondling hand down her rounded back. 



"AIR ACTIVITY": 163 

"Thank you too, 'Kiddie,'" he said, nodded 
to the Sergeant, "I got a good old 'bus, Flight," 
turned, and ran off. 

"A d n good 'bus," said the Sergeant, 

"and a d n good man flying her." 



XIII 

THE LITTLE BUTCHER 

The CO. was showing a couple of friends from 
the infantry round the Squadron, and while 
they were in the hangars having a look at the 
machines — one of our latest type fighting scouts 
— a pilot came to them on the run, and hardly 
pausing to make a jerky salute, spoke hastily: 
" Message just come in by 'phone, sir, that 
there's a Hun two-seater over our lines near 
Rorke's Camp, and will you warn the Flight 
when they go up presently to look out for him. 
And if you don't mind, sir, I'd like to go up at 
once myself and have a shot at him." 

The Major hesitated a moment; then " Right," 
he said, and with a quick " Thanks" the pilot 
whipped round and ran off. 

"Might walk over and see him start," said 
the CO. " He'll be gone in a minute. Always 
has his bus standing by all ready. He's our 
star pilot — queer little chap — always desper- 
ately keen for Huns, and makes any number of 
lone-hand hunts for 'em. Crashed nearly forty 
to date, the last brace before breakfast yester- 
day." 

"Hope it didn't spoil his appetite," said one 
of the visitors. 

164 



THE LITTLE BUTCHER 165 

"Spoil it!" The CO. laughed. "Gave him 
one, rather. You don't know him, but I tell you 
he'd sooner kill a Hun than eat, any day. We 
call him 'The Little Butcher' here, because he 
has such a purposeful, business-like way of going 
about his work." 

They came to The Little Butcher as he was 
scrambling aboard his machine. He was too 
busy to glance at them, and the two visitors, 
looking at the thin, dark, eager face, watching 
the anxious impatience to be off, evident in 
every look and movement, saw something 
sinister, unpleasant in him and his haste to get 
to his kill. Their impressions were rather 
strengthened after The Little Butcher had 
gone with a rush and a roar, and they had 
asked the CO. a few more questions about him. 

"No, not a tremendous amount of risk for 
him this trip," said the CO. "Y'see, he's on 
a "bus that's better than their best, and can 
outfly and outstunt anything he's likely to 
meet. He knows his job thoroughly, and it's 
a fairly safe bet that if he finds his Hun his 
Hun is cold meat." 

Now, both the visitors had been fighting for 
rather a long time, had few squeamish feelings 
left about killing Huns, and were not much 
given to sparing pity for them. And yet they 
both, as they admitted after to each other, felt 
a vague stirring of something very like pity for 
those two German airmen up there unaware of 
the death that was hurtling towards them. 

"I'm rather changing my notions of this air- 



166 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 

fighting," said one. "I always thought it rather 
a sporting game, but " 

"So it is to a good many," said the CO. 
"But there's nothing sporting about it to The 
Little Butcher. He's out for blood every time." 

"Seems to me," said one, when the C.O. had 
left them to go and see the Flight get ready, 
"this Little Butcher of theirs is well named, and 
is rather an unpleasant sort of little devil." 

"I can't say," admitted the other, "that the 
idea appeals to me of going off, as it seems he's 
doing, to shoot down a couple of men in cold 
blood. Butchering is about the right word. 
I'm out to kill Germans myself, but I can't say 
I like doing it, much less gloat over the prospect, 
as this youngster appears to do." 

Their unfavourable impression of The Little 
Butcher was so much stronger even than they 
knew that it really gave them a grim sense of 
satisfaction when the C.O. told them later that 
word had just come in that there were two Huns 
where one had been reported. 

"Nasty surprise for your Little Butcher," 
said one, "if he bumps into them. But I sup- 
pose he'll see them in time and wait for the 
Flight to help him." 

"Not he," said the C.O. "He'll tackle the 
two quick enough, and probably outfly 'em and 
get one or both. Sheer off from a chance of 
crashing two Huns instead of one? Not much." 

This was late afternoon or early evening, and 
the two heard the story of the fight that night, 
before and during dinner, between courses and 



THE LITTLE BUTCHER 167 

mouthfuls of food, over cigarettes and coffee, 
in snatches and patches, in answers to questions 
and in translations of air terms they did not 
clearly follow. And again their impression of 
The Little Butcher grew firmer, that he was "a 
murderous little devil" and "a cold-blooded 
young brute." There was no mistaking in The 
Little Butcher's telling his huge satisfaction in 
his kill, his fretting impatience when he thought 
he might be baulked of his prey, his eagerness to 
finish his work; and frankly the two did not like 
it or him. 

When he had gone off that afternoon, he had 
flown arrow-straight for the locality the Hun 
was reported in, climbing in a long slant as he 
went, looking out eagerly for any sign of his 
quarry. He found them — or, as he still thought, 
the one — by sighting the puffing bursts of our 
Archie shells, and took quick stock of the 
position. The sun was still high and in the 
south-west; the Huns almost due south of him. 
His great anxiety was to approach unseen to 
such a distance as would prevent the Hun 
escaping on catching sight of him, so he swung 
wide to his left to gain the cover of a slow drift- 
ing cloud that might allow him to come closer 
without being seen. He passed behind and 
clear of it, and continued his circle, south 
now and bearing west towards another cloud, 
and as he flew he stared hard towards the puffing 
shell-bursts and made out the tiny dots that he 
knew were two machines. He was sure they 
were both Huns, because the way they circled 



168 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 

and flew about each other without any move- 
ments of a fight made it clear they were not 
opponents. The Archie shells wrote them down 
Huns. 

With the second cloud safely between him and 
them, The Little Butcher swung and raced 
towards the two, reached the back of the cloud, 
and went laddering up towards its upper and 
western edge. He figured they could not be 
more than a mile from him then, but to locate 
them exactly and make his best plan of attack 
he skirted round the side of the cloud — a thick, 
solid, white cotton-woolly one — until he caught 
sight of them. 

The instant he did so he plunged into the 
cloud and out of sight. He had kept so close 
to it that the one turn of his wrist, the one kick 
on his rudder, flung him side-slipping into it, 
to circle back and out clear behind it again. 
He looked down and round carefully for sight 
of any of our machines that might be coming 
up to interrupt his work and perhaps scare off 
his quarry, but saw none. But on the clear sun- 
lit ground far below he saw a puff of smoke flash 
out, and then another close beside the hutments 
of Rorke's Camp, and concluded the two Huns 
were "doing a shoot," were observing for their 
artillery and directing the fire of their guns on 
to points below them. It gave him the better 
chance of a surprise attack, because at least one 
man's attention on each of the machines must 
be taken up in watching the fall of the shells. 
The Little Butcher revived his hope of bagging 



THE LITTLE BUTCHER 169 

the two, a hope that at first had begun to fade 
in the belief that one might bolt while he was 
downing the other. 

The worst of the position now was that the 
two were rather widely separated, that his 
attack on the one might bolt the other, and 
that the second might reach the safety of his own 
lines before he could be overtaken. The Little 
Butcher didn't like the idea, so he restrained his 
impatience and waited, fidgeting, for the two to 
close in to each other or to him. He climbed 
to the top of the cloud and circled with engine 
throttled back, swinging up every now and 
again until he could just catch sight of the two, 
ducking back behind the cloud edge again with- 
out being seen. 

He was so intent on his business that it was 
only instinct or long habit that kept him 
glancing up and round for sight of any other 
enemy, and it was this that perhaps saved him 
from the fate he was preparing for the two. In 
one of his upward glances he suddenly caught 
sight of another machine full three thousand feet 
above him, and racing to a position for a diving 
attack. The Little Butcher, as he said that 
night, "didn't know whether to curse or weep." 
The newcomer broke in most unpleasantly on 
his careful plans. Two slow old Art. Ob. Huns 
were one sort of game; with a fast fighting scout 
thrown in the affair became very different. 
The two he had counted as "his meat," but 
now with this fellow butting in. . . . He felt it 
served him right in a way for not diving at 



170 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 

them first shot instead of hanging about for a 
chance to bag the two. He had been impatient 
enough, Lord knew, to get at them, and he 
shouldn't have waited. 

All this went through his mind in a flash, even 
as his eyes were taking in the details of the 
scout rushing to position above him, his mind 
figuring out the other's plan of attack. He 
wasn't worrying much for the moment about 
the attack, because he was still circling slowly 
above his cotton-wool cloud, had only to thrust 
forward the joy-stick to vanish as completely 
from sight as if he were in another world. But he 
wanted to frame the best plan that would still 
give him a shot at the artillery machines, and — 

The scout above pointed at him and came 
down like a swooping hawk, his guns clattering 
out a long burst of fire. The Little Butcher 
flipped over and sank like a stone into the 
thickness of the cloud. He went plunging down 
through the rushing vapour, burst out of it into 
the sunlight below, opened out his engine, and, 
turning towards the sun, was off with a rush. 

As he swept out clear of the cloud he looked 
round and up, to locate his enemies, size up the 
position, and figure the chances of his contem- 
plated plan working. The scout was not in 
sight yet, was circling above the cloud still, 
probably waiting for him to emerge. The two 
artillery machines were closer together, as if 
they had noticed the signs of fight and were in 
position to support each other. They were out 
on his right hand and about a mile away. He 



THE LITTLE BUTCHER 171 

kept straight and hard on his course — a course 
that was taking him into a line that would pass 
between them and the sun. 

He saw the scout again now, high up and 
circling above the cloud still. The Little 
Butcher paid no further heed to him, but drove 
on at his top pace, with his head twisted to 
the right and his eyes glued on the slow swinging 
artillery machines. They gave no sign of seeing 
him for ten long seconds, or if they saw him con- 
cluded he was running away. "My luck held," 
said The Little Butcher in his telling of the tale, 
and the savage ring in his voice and glint in his 
dark eyes gave a little shiver to the two listening 
infantrymen. 

He gained the point he was aiming for, shot 
up into "the eye of the sun," kicked the 'bus 
hard round, and came plunging and hurtling down 
on the nearest of the two machines. As he dived 
he heard the whip of bullets past him, knew the 
scout above had sighted him, was probably 
diving in turn to intercept him. He paid no 
heed; held hard and straight on his course, 
keeping his eye glued on the nearest machine 
and his sights dead on him, his fingers ready to 
start his guns at first sign of their seeing him. 
And because he was coming on them "out of 
the sun," because even if they had smoked 
glasses on and looked at him it would take a 
second or two to accustom themselves to the 
glare and be sure of him, he was within 300 
yards before the farthest one suddenly tilted 
and whirled round and dived away. 



172 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 

The Little Butcher was on him before he had 
well begun his dive, had gripped the trigger 
lever of his guns and commenced to hail a stream 
of bullets ahead of him. He saw the Hun swerve 
and thrust his nose down, so changed course 
slightly to hold him in his sights, and kept his 
guns going hard. He was close enough now to 
see the observer swinging his gun round to fire 
on him, and then, next instant, to see a handful 
of his bullets hit splintering into the woodwork 
of the Hun's fuselage. 

The Hun fell spinning and rolling, and The 
Little Butcher thrust his nose down and ripped 
in another short burst as his target swept under- 
neath. Then he lifted and swung, and went 
tearing straight at the second artillery ma- 
chine, which was nose on to him and firing 
hard from its forward gun. At the same 
moment he heard the whipping and cracking of 
bullets about him and the clatter of close 
machine-guns, looked up, and saw the scout 
turn zooming up from a dive on him. 

The Little Butcher held straight on, opening 
fire at the Hun ahead. The Hun side-slipped, 
ducked and spun down a thousand feet, The 
Little Butcher diving after, spitting short bursts 
at him every time he thought he crossed the 
sights, aware again that the scout above was 
following him down and shooting uncomfortably 
close. He was forced to turn his attention to 
him, so next time a dive came, he pulled his top 
gun down and let drive at the shape that plunged 
down, over, and up, then hoicked up after him 
and engaged hotly. 



THE LITTLE BUTCHER 173 

The two-seater below made no attempt to 
climb and join the combat, but swinging east hit 
for home as hard as he could go. The Little 
Butcher broke off his fight with the scout and 
went, full out, after the two-seater, the scout 
whirling round and following gamely. Because 
The Little Butcher had by far the faster machine, 
and had besides the added impetus of a down- 
ward slant from his thousand-foot higher level, 
he overhauled the two-seater hand over fist, 
forced him into a spinning dive again, and in a 
moment was mixing it in a hot fight with him 
and the scout. Again, because he had the faster 
and handier machine, he secured an advantage, 
and whipping round astern of the scout and 
"sitting on his tail" drove him to escape his 
fire in a steep spin. 

But at that moment The Little Butcher felt 
a spray of wet on his face, found it was oil, and 
concluded, wrathfully, that his oil tank or pipe 
must be shot through. His engine, he knew, 
would quickly run dry, might seize up at any 
moment, and leave him helpless. And the two- 
seater was off tearing for the lines again, the 
scout still spinning down to escape him. He 
wanted that two-seater, wanted him badly. He 
had bagged the one and meant getting the other. 

There was a last chance — if his engine would 
stand for a few minutes. He opened her out 
and shot off after the two-seater. He caught 
him up and dropped astern, the oil still spraying 
back, misting his goggles and nearly blinding 
him, the Hun observer pouring a long steady 
fire at him. He stooped forward with his face 



174 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 

close to the wind-screen, dropped to a position 
dead astern of the two-seater where the observer 
could not effectively fire at him without shooting 
away his own tail, and poured in a long clatter- 
ing burst from both guns. His bullets, he knew, 
were tearing stern to stem through the Hun; 
but the Hun held on, and The Little Butcher 
felt his engine check and kick. The oil spray had 
ceased, which meant the last of the oil was 
gone and the engine running dry. The Little 
Butcher gritted his teeth, and kept his guns going. 

The Hun observer's fire stopped suddenly, 
and he fell limp across the edge of his cockpit. 
The Hun pilot was helpless. With a fast scout 
on his tail, with no gunner or gun to shoot 
astern, he could do nothing — except perhaps 
escape in a spin down. But astern of him the 
guns continued to chatter, the bullets to rip 
and tear and splinter through his machine. 

The Little Butcher was in an agony of suspense 
as to whether he could get his man before his 
engine failed him, and as he told his story it 
was plain to see the intensity, the desperate 
uncertainty, and the eagerness he had felt. "I 
knew my engine was going to conk out any 
second — could feel a sort of grate and grind in 
her, and that my revs, were dropping off. The 
Hun was drawing away a yard or two . . . and I 
tell you I cursed the luck. I hung on, dead 
astern and pumping it into him and seeing my 
bullets fairly raking him. But he wouldn't 
go down. ..." (His eyes gleamed as he spoke, 
his brows were drawn down, his whole face 



THE LITTLE BUTCHER 175 

quivering with eagerness, with the revived 
excitement of the chase, the passionate desire 
for the downfall of his quarry.) "I began to 
think he'd get away. I'd never have forgiven 
myself — having him dead helpless like that, right 
at point-blank, and then losing him. . . . But I 
got him at last — and just in time. Got him, 
and crashed him good. ..." 

It all sounds very brutal perhaps — did cer- 
tainly to the two infantrymen listening, fas- 
cinated. But — this was The Little Butcher; and 
he was out to kill. 

The end had come a few seconds later. The 
Hun pilot lurched forward; his machine 
plunged, rolled over, shot out and up, tail-slid, 
and then went spinning and " dead-leafing" 
down. The Little Butcher shut off his crippled 
engine, looked round and saw the Hun scout 
streaking for the lines, put his machine into a 
long glide and watched his second victim twist 
and twirl down and down, watched until he saw 
him hit and crash. 

He came down and made a landing on another 
'drome, borrowed a tender, and in an hour was 
eating his dinner. 

I have said the two visitors did not like the 
story or the teller. They were, in fact, a little 
disgusted and sickened with both, and they 
said as much to their friend the CO. when the 
others had left the table, and they three lingered 
over liqueurs. 

"Silly of me perhaps," said one, "but I 
hated the way that boy sort of licked his lips 



176 THE LITTLE BUTCHER 

over the chance of catching that Hun unawares 
and shooting him down." 

The other wrinkled his nose disgustedly. "It 
was fifty times worse his hanging to that fellow 
who couldn't shoot back — when the observer 
was dead — and bringing him down in cold blood. 
Poor devil. Think of his feelings." 

"Little Butcher," said the first, "you named 
him well. Bloody-minded little butcher at that." 

"But hold on a minute," said the CO. "I 
can't let you run away with these wrong notions 
of The Little Butcher. Have you any idea why 
he is so keen on killing Huns? Why he jumped 
at the chance to go up and get that one to-day, 
why he was in such a hurry to tackle the two, why 
he— well, why he is The Little Butcher?" 

"Lord knows," said one, and "Pure blood- 
thirstiness," the other. 

"I'll tell you," said the CO. "It is because 
he was once in the infantry, as I was; and 
because he knows, as I do, what it means to the 
line to have an artillery observing machine 
over directing shells on to you fellows, or taking 
photos that will locate your positions and bring 
Hades down on you. Every Hun that comes 
over the line, you fellows have to sweat for; 
every minute a gun-spotter or photographer or 
reconnaissance machine works over you, you pay 
for in killed and wounded. Lots of our pilots 
don't properly realise that, and treat air fighting 
as more or leste of a sporting game, or just as the 
job they're here for. The Little Butcher knows 
that every Hun crashed means so many more 



THE LITTLE BUTCHER 177 

lives saved on the ground, every Hun that gets 
away alive will be the death of some of you; 
so he's full out to crash them — whenever, 
wherever, and however he can." 

The two guests fidgeted a little and glanced 
shamefacedly at one another. "I hadn't 

thought " began one, and "I never looked 

at it " said the other. 

"No," said the CO., "and few men on the 
ground do, because they don't know any better. 
P'raps you'll tell some of 'em. And don't for- 
get — although I admit that, as he told the 
story, it mightn't sound like it — his isn't the 
simple butchering game you seem to think. 
You didn't see his 'bus when it was brought in? 
No. Well, it had just thirty-seven bullet holes 
in it, including one through the windscreen, a 
foot off his head. Any one of those might have 
crashed him; and he knows it. Some day one 
of them will get him; and he also knows that. 
But he takes his risks, and will keep on taking 
'em — because every risk, every Hun downed, is 
saving some of you fellows on the floor. There's 
a-many women at home to-night who might be 
widows and are still wives; and for that you 
can thank God — and The Little Butcher." 

"I see," said the one listener slowly — "I see." 

"So do I," said the other. "And I'm glad 
you told us. Now," thrusting his chair back, 
"I'm going to find The Little Butcher, and 
apologise to him." 

"Me too," said the first — "apologise, and 
thank him for all he's done, and is doing — for us." 



XIV 

A CUSHY JOB 1 

A Ferry Pilot once told me that he had a very- 
pleasant and " cushy" job, especially when you 
compared it with the one in a Squadron working 
over the lines. Because we had just made an 
ideal flight across Channel on a beautiful summer 
day, and were sitting in comfortable deck-chairs, 
basking in the sun outside the Pool Pilots' 
Mess after a good lunch, I was inclined at first 
to believe him. A little later he told a story 
which made me revise that belief, the more so 
as it was not told to impress, and was accepted 
by the other Ferry Pilots there present so 
casually and with so little comment that it was 
apparently an experience not at all beyond the 
average. 

A chance remark was made about a recent 
trip on which he had been lost in the mist, and 
had two very close shaves from crashing. Since 
none of the others asked for the story, I did, 
and got it at last, told very sketchily and off- 
handedly, and only filled in with such details 
as I could drag out of him with many questions. 

He had started out one morning to fly a new 
fast single-seater scout machine to France, and, 

1 Cushy =easy, soft. 
178 



A CUSHY JOB 179 

while getting his height before pushing out across 
Channel, noticed there was a haze over the water, 
and that the coast on the other side was also 
rather obscured, although not to any alarming 
extent. But before he had got over to the 
French side quite a thick mist had crept up 
Channel, and he had to come down to a couple 
of thousand feet to pick up his exact bearings. 
He lost some time at this, but at last recognised 
a bit of the coast, and found he was rather off 
his line, so swung off and pushed for the Depot 
landing-ground. Before he reached it, the mist, 
which had been steadily thickening, suddenly 
swept over in a solid wave, and he found any 
view of the ground completely gone. 

He climbed a couple of thousand into the 
sunlight again, and looked round for a bearing, 
thought he could make out the ground in one 
direction, and, opening his engine full out, pushed 
off for the spot. But either his eyes had deceived 
him, or the mist had beat him to it. He flew on, 
with nothing but crawling, drifting mist visible 
below him, dropped down again and peered over 
the side, down and down again until his altimeter 
showed him to be a bare couple of hundred feet 
up. There was still no sight of ground, and 
since he was now in thick mist himself he could 
see nothing but dim greyness below, all round, 
and above him. He climbed through thinning 
layers of mist into daylight, and headed straight 
south by compass, figuring that the best plan was 
to try to outfly the mist area, and, when he 
could see the ground anywhere, pick up a 



180 A CUSHY JOB 

bearing and a 'drome, any 'drome, and get down 
on it. 

But after half an hour's flight he was still 
above crawling banks of mist, and by now had 
not the faintest idea of where he was. He had 
made several dips down to look for the ground, 
but each time had caught not the faintest indica- 
tion of it, although he had dropped dangerously 
low according to the altimeter. He began to 
wonder if the altimeter was registering cor- 
rectly, but came to the highly unpleasant con- 
clusion that, if he could not trust it, he certainly 
dare not distrust it to the extent of believing 
he was higher than it showed, dropping down 
and perhaps barging into a clump of trees, or 
telegraph wires, or any other obstruction. 

He admits that he began to get a bit rattled 
here. He became oppressed with a desolating 
sense of his utter aloneness, especially when he 
was low down and whirling blindly through the 
mist. He was completely cut off from the 
world. Firm ground was there beneath him 
somewhere, cheery companions, homely things 
like cosy rooms and fires and hot coffee; but 
while the mist lasted he could no more touch any 
of them than he could touch the moon. 

To make it worse, he was completely lost and 
had not the faintest idea where he was. He 
was steering by compass only, and if he was 
drifting to the east he might be approaching 
the lines and Hunland, and if to the west might 
even now be over the sea. For an hour and a 
half he flew, trying to keep a straight course 
south, and seeing nothing but that dim grey 



A CUSHY JOB 181 

around him when he came low, the sun and sky- 
above, and the wide floor of mist beneath, when 
he climbed high. Flying high he had the same 
sense of aloneness, of being the only living 
thing in an empty world of his own, of cut-off- 
ness from the earth, that he had when he was 
in the blanketting mist. 

It was a different kind of aloneness, but even 
more desperate from the feeling of helplessness 
that went with it. Here he was, a fit, strong 
man, with every limb, organ, and sense perfect, 
with a good, sound, first-class machine under 
him, with a bright sun and a clear sky above, 
able to control his every movement, to fly to any 
point of the compass, to go up, or down, or 
round, at any angle or speed he liked — except 
a speed low enough to allow him to drop to the 
ground without smashing himself and his machine 
to pulp and splinters. All his power was reduced 
to nought by a mere bank of mist, a thin im- 
palpable vapour, a certain amount of moisture 
in the atmosphere. His very power and speed 
were his undoing. Speed that in free air was 
safety, was death on touching the ground except 
at a proper angle and with a clear run to slow 
in — an angle he could not gauge, a clear run he 
could not find for this deadly mist. It was 
maddening . . . and terrifying. 

He decided to make one more try for the 
ground, a last attempt to see if he could get 
below the mist blanket without hitting the 
earth. He thrust his nose down and plunged, 
flattening out a little as he came into the mist, 
shut off his engine, and went on down in a long 



182 A CUSHY JOB 

glide with his eyes on the altimeter, lifting and 
staring down overside, turning back quickly to 
read his height. At three hundred he could see 
nothing, at two hundred nothing, at a hundred 
still nothing but swirling greyness. He flew on, 
still edging down, opening up his engine every 
now and then to maintain flying speed, shutting 
it off and gliding, his eyes straining for sight of 
anything solid, his ears for sound of anything 
but the whistle and whine of the wind on his 
wings and wires. Down, still down, his heart in 
his mouth, his hand ready on the throttle — 
down . . . down . . . 

Everything depended on what sort of surface 
he was flying above. If there were flat open 
fields he must catch sight, however shadowy it 
might be, of them before touching anything. 
If there were trees or buildings below, the first 
sight he got might be something looming up 
before him a fraction of a second before he hit. 
Down, steadily and gradually, but still down — 
down . . . then, up — suddenly and steeply, his 
hand jerking the throttle wide open, the engine 
roaring out in deafening notes that for all their 
strength could not drown the thumping of his 
heart and the blood drumming in his ears. A 
hundred feet he climbed steeply; but even then, 
with the panic of immediate peril gone, he kept 
on climbing in narrow turns up into the sunlight 
again. 

He had had a deadly narrow escape, had been 
so intent on staring down for the ground that 
almost before he knew what was happening he 
had flashed close past something solid, some- 



A CUSHY JOB 183 

thing that his wing-tips catching would have 
meant death — a straight upright pillar, then 
another, with faint pencilled lines running 
between them — a ship's masts and rigging. And 
as he shot up, almost straight up, he had a quick 
glimpse of another three shadowy masts jerking 
downwards into obscurity before and then 
beneath him. He must be over a harbour, or 
dock, or perhaps some sort of canal basin. He 
kept his upward course until he was in sunlight 
again, carefully examined his oil and petrol 
gauges and his compass, and set a northerly 
course. The mist might be over all France; he 
would make a try back for England. 

He held on until he had run his main petrol 
tank out, switched on to the gravity "emer- 
gency tank" set on the top plane, and kept 
steadily on his course. He had an hour's petrol 
there, and that ought, he figured, to take him 
well over England and inland. 

He decided to keep going until he could see 
signs of the mist thinning, or until his petrol 
ran almost out; but when it was about half 
empty, and he thought he must be back over the 
Channel and a good many miles inland, he slid 
down through the mist on the chance of being 
able to see the ground below it. He went down 
to a hundred feet, lower, could see nothing, 
opened his engine out again and began to climb. 

Then he had another hair-raising deadly scare. 
He saw the mist in front of him suddenly begin 
to darken, to solidify, to take shape, to become 
a solid bulk stretching out and thinning away to 
grey mist to either side, above him, and below him. 



184 A CUSHY JOB 

For one flashing instant he was puzzled, for 
another he was panic-stricken, knew with a 
cold clutch of terror at his heart that he was 
charging at a hundred miles an hour full into 
the face of a sheer-walled cliff. Actually his 
speed was his saving — his speed and the instinct 
that did the one possible thing to bring him 
clear. He had gathered way on his upward 
slant, his engine running full out. He hauled 
the control lever hard in, and his machine, 
answering instantly, reared and swooped and 
shot straight up parallel with the cliff face, over 
in the first half of a loop, and straight away 
from the cliff, upside down, until he was far 
enough out safely to roll over to an even keel. 
It was so close a thing that for an instant he saw 
distinctly the cracks and crevices in the cliff 
face, held his breath, dreading to feel the jar of 
wheels or tail on the rock, and the plunge and 
crash that would follow. 

A long way out he slanted up, with his heart 
still thumping unpleasantly, climbed until he 
was in the sunlight again, and turned north. 

He found the mist thinning ten minutes later, 
cleared it in another five, glided down, and picked 
a good field, and landed — with about ten minutes' 
petrol in his tank. 

And that same afternoon, when the mist 
went, he refilled his tanks and took his machine 
over to France, and delivered it to the Depot 
there. 

But a Ferry Pilot, you'll remember, has a 
"cushy job." 



XV 

NO THOROUGHFARE 

For a week the line had been staggering back, 
fighting savagely to hold their ground, being 
driven in, time and again, by the sheer weight 
of fresh German divisions brought up and 
hurled without a pause against them, giving 
way and retiring sullenly and stubbornly to 
fresh positions, having to endure renewed 
ferocious onslaughts there, and give to them 
again. Fighting, marching, digging in; fighting 
again and repeating the performance over and 
over for days and nights, our men were worn 
down dangerously near to the point of exhaus- 
tion and collapse, the point over which the 
Germans strove to thrust them, the point 
where human endurance could no longer stand 
the strain, and the breaking, crumbling line 
would give the opening for which the Germans 
fought so hard, the opening through which they 
would pour their masses and cut the Allied 
armies in two. 

Now at the end of a week it looked as if their 

aim was dangerously near attainment. On one 

portion of the line especially the strain had 

been tremendous, and the men, hard driven and 

. 185 



186 NO THOROUGHFARE 

harassed for two days and nights almost with- 
out a break, were staggering on their feet, 
stupid with fatigue, dazed for want of sleep. 
Of all their privations this want of sleep was 
the hardest and cruellest. The men longed 
for nothing more than a chance to throw them- 
selves on the ground, to fling down on the 
roadside, in the ditches, anywhere, anyhow, 
and close their aching eyes and sink in deep, 
deep sleep. But there was no faintest hope of 
sleep for them. They had been warned that 
all the signs were of a fresh great attack being 
launched on them about dusk, by more of 
those apparently inexhaustible fresh enemy 
divisions. The divisions they had fought all 
day were being held stubbornly by rear-guard 
actions until the new positions were established; 
and plain word had been brought in by recon- 
noitring air men of the new masses pressing up 
by road and rail to converge with all their 
weight on the weakened line and the worn-out 
men who made ready to hold it. Everyone 
knew what was coming. Company and battalion 
officers scanned the ground and picked positions 
for trenches and machine-guns to sweep the 
attack; Generals Commanding pored over maps 
and contours and sought points where concen- 
trated shell-fire might best check the masses. 
And all who knew anything knew that it was 
no more than a forlorn hope that if once those 
fresh divisions came to close quarters they 
could be beaten back. Our men would be 
outnumbered, would be unrested and worn 



NO THOROUGHFARE 187 

with fighting and digging and marching con- 
tinuously, — that was the rub; if our men could 
have a rest, a few hours' sleep, a chance to 
recuperate, they could make some sort of a 
show, put up a decent fight again, hold on long 
enough to give the promised reinforcements 
time to come up, the guns to take up new posi- 
tions. But "a renewed attack in force must 
be expected by dusk" said the word that came 
to them, and every precious minute until 
then must be filled with moving the tired 
men into position, doing their utmost to dig 
in and make some kind of defensive line. It 
looked bad. 

But there were other plans in the making, 
plans figured out on wider reaching lines, offer- 
ing the one chance of success in attacking the 
fresh enemy masses at their most vulnerable 
points, fifteen, twenty miles away from our 
weary line. The plans were completed and 
worked out in detail and passed down the chain 
to the air Squadrons; rnd Flight by Flight the 
pilots and observers loaded up to the full capacity 
of their machines with bombs and machine- 
gun ammunition and went droning out over 
the heads of the working troops digging the 
fresh line, over the scattered outpost and rear- 
guard lines where the Germans pressed ten- 
tatively and waited for the new reinforcements 
that were to recommence the fierce " hammer- 
blow" attacks, on over the dribbling streams of 
transport and men moving by many paths into 
the battle line, on to where the main streams 



188 NO THOROUGHFARE 

ran full flood on road and rail — and where the 
streams could best be dammed and diverted. 

The air Squadrons went in force to their 
work, bent all their energies for the moment to 
the one great task of breaking up the masses 
before they could bring their weight into the 
line, of upsetting the careful time-table which 
the enemy must lay down and follow if they 
were to handle with any success the huge bulk 
of traffic they were putting on road and rail. 
Each Flight and Squadron had its own ap- 
pointed work and place, its carefully detailed 
orders of how and where to go about their 
business. In one Squadron, where the CO. 
held council with his Flight Leaders and ex- 
plained the position and pointed out the plans, 
one of his Captains summed up the instructions 
in a sentence. "That bit of road," he said 
with his finger on the map, "you want us to 
see it's 'No Thoroughfare' for the Hun up to 
dark?" 

"That's it," said the CO. "And if you get 
a chance at a train or two about here — well, 
don't let it slip." 

"Right-oh," "That's simple," "No Thorough- 
fare," said the Captains, and proceeded about 
their business. The Flights went off at short 
intervals, intervals calculated to "keep the pot 
a-boiling," as closely as possible, to allow no 
minutes when some of the Squadron would not 
be on or about the spot to enforce the "No 
Thoroughfare" rule. For the rest of the after- 
noon they came and went, and came and went, 



NO THOROUGHFARE 189 

in a steady string, circling in and dropping 
to the 'drome to refill hurriedly with fresh stocks 
of bombs and ammunition, taking off and 
driving out to the east as soon as they had the 
tanks and drums filled and the bombs hitched 
on. They were on scout machines carrying four 
light bombs and many hundred rounds of 
ammunition apiece, and Dennis, the leader of 
the first Flight, made an enthusiastic report of 
success on the first return. " Found the spot 
all right, Major," he said cheerfully. "The 
crater reported is there all right, and it has 
wrecked half the road. There was a working 
party on it going like steam to fill in the hole, 
we disturbed the party a whole lot." 

They had disturbed them. The road was 
one of those long miles-straight main routes 
that run between the towns in that part of 
France. They were well filled with troops 
and transport over the first miles, but the Flight 
Leader followed instructions and let these go, 
knowing other Squadrons would be dealing 
with them in their own good time and way. 
"Although I wish they'd get busy and do it," 
as he told the CO. "Having nothing to worry 
them, those Huns just naturally filled the air 
with lead as he went over 'em. Look at my 
poor old 'Little Indian' there; her planes are 
as full of holes as a sieve." 

But he had pushed his "Little Indian" 
straight on without attempting to return the 
fire from below, and presently he came to the 
spot where the Squadron was to tackle its job 



190 NO THOROUGHFARE 

— a spot where an attempt had been made by 
our Engineers to blow up the road as we retired, 
and where a yawning hole took up half the 
road, leaving one good lorry-width for the 
transport to crawl round. An infantry battalion 
was tramping past the crater when the Flight 
arrived above it, and since the "Little Indian" 
flew straight on without loosing off a bomb or 
a shot, the rest of the Flight followed obediently, 
although in some wonder as to whether the 
target was not being passed by mistake. There 
was no mistake. They followed the leader 
round in a wide sweep over the open fields with 
stray bunches of infantry firing wildly up at 
them, round to the crater, and past it again, 
and out and round still wider. The road by 
the crater was empty as they passed, but a 
long string of lorries and horse transport that 
had been waiting half a mile back began to 
move and crawl along towards the crater. The 
" Little Indian" kept on her wide circle until 
half the lorries were past the crater. Then she 
came round in a steep bank and shot straight 
as an arrow back to the road, swept round 
sharply again and went streaking along above 
it. Two hundred yards from the crater she 
lifted, curved over and came diving down, 
spitting fire and lead as she came, pelting a 
stream of bullets on the lorries abreast of the 
mine hole and diving straight at them. Thirty 
feet away from the hole, one, two, three, four 
black objects dropped away from under the 
machine, and four spurts of flame and smoke 



NO THOROUGHFARE 191 

leaped and flashed amongst the lorries and about 
the hole, as the " Little Indian" zoomed up, 
ducked over and came diving down again with 
her machine-guns hailing bullets along the 
lorries and the horse transport. And close 
astern of her came the rest of the Flight, splash- 
ing their bombs down the length of the convoy, 
each saving one or two for the spot by the 
crater, continuing along the road and emptying 
their guns on the transport. Half a mile along 
the road they swung round and turned back 
and repeated the gunning performance on men 
struggling to hold and steady crazed and bolting 
horses, on wagons in the ditches, on one lorry 
with her nose well down in the half-filled crater 
and another one comfortably crashed against 
her tail that stuck out into the half-width bit of 
road. 

"A beautiful block," the Flight told the 
Major on their return. " Couldn't have placed 
'em better if we'd driven the lorries ourselves. 
And there's horse wagons enough scattered 
along the ditches of the next half mile to keep 
the Hun busy for hours." 

The second Flight, arriving about ten minutes 
after the first had departed homeward bound, 
found the Huns exceedingly busy struggling 
to remove the wrecked transport which so 
effectually blocked the way. There were men 
enough crowded round the crater especially to 
make a very fine target, and the first machine 
or two got their bombs well home on these, and 
scattered the rest impartially along the road on 



192 NO THOROUGHFARE 

any "suitable targets" of men or transport. 
They established another couple of very useful 
blocks along the mile of road behind the crater, 
and completely cleared the road of marching 
men for a good three miles. The third Flight 
found no targets beyond the working party at 
the crater until they had gone back a few miles 
to a cross road, where they distributed some 
bombs on a field battery, bolted the teams, and 
left the gunners well down in the ditches beside 
their overturned guns and limbers. 

They had barely finished their performance 
when the first Flight was back again, but by 
this time the enemy had taken steps to upset 
the arrangements, and with a couple of machine- 
guns posted by the crater did their best to keep 
the traffic blockers out of reach of their targets. 
But the Flight would not be denied, and drove 
in through the storm of bullets, planted their 
bombs and gave the ground gunners a good 
peppering, and got away with no further damage 
than a lot of bullet holes in wings and fuselages. 
For the next hour the Germans fought to 
strengthen their anti-aircraft defences, bringing 
up more machine-guns and lining the ditches 
with riflemen, and the attackers got a reception 
that grew hotter and hotter with each attempt. 
But they held the road blocked, and effectually 
prevented any successful attempt to clear and 
use it, and in addition extended their attacks 
to further back and to other near-by roads, 
and to the railway. Crossing this line on one 
outward trip Dennis, still flying his bullet-riddled 



NO THOROUGHFARE 193 

"Little Indian," saw a long and heavily-laden 
train toiling slowly towards the front. It was 
too good a chance to miss, so he swung and made 
for it, swooped down to within a hundred feet 
and dropped his bombs. Only one hit fairly, 
and although that blew one truck to pieces, it 
left it on the rails and the trains still crawling 
along. But the Flight followed his lead, and 
one of their bombs hit and so damaged 
the engine that a cloud of steam came pouring 
up from it and the train stopped. Another 
long train was panting up from the German rear, 
so the Flight swept along it and sprayed it 
liberally with machine-gun bullets, scaring the 
driver and fireman into leaping overboard, 
and bringing that train also to a standstill. 
Dennis headed back home to bring up a fresh 
stock of bombs, and, if he could, damage the 
train beyond possibility of moving, although 
he feared it was rather a large contract for a 
scout's light bombs. But on the way back he 
met a formation of big two-seater bombers 
carrying heavy bombs, and by firing a few 
rounds, diving athwart their course, and frantic 
wavings and pointings managed to induce them 
to follow him. Two of them did, and he led 
them straight back to the two trains. The 
driver and fireman of the second had resumed 
their duties and were trying to push the first 
train along when the bombers arrived, and 
planting one bomb fairly on the train, started 
a fire going, and with another which fell between 
two trucks blew them off the metals. The 



194 NO THOROUGHFARE 

burning trucks were just beginning to blow up 
nicely as our machines raced for home and more 
ammunition. 

The next hour was mainly occupied with a 
fast fight against about twenty Hun machines 
evidently brought up to break up the road- 
blockers' game. The fight ended with three 
of the Huns being left crashed on the ground, 
one of ours going down in flames, and two strug- 
gling back across the lines with damaged machine 
and engine. Dennis was forced to leave his 
machine for one trip and borrow another while 
his damaged wings were replaced with new ones. 

This time two Flights went out together, 
and while one engaged the Hun machines 
which still strove to drive them back, the other 
dived back on the road and again scattered the 
working party which struggled to clear the road. 
They had a hot passage, whirling down through 
a perfect tempest of machine-gun fire, and 
another machine was lost to it. Dennis struggled 
back across the lines with a shot-through radiator 
and an engine seizing up, was forced to land as 
best he could, wrecked his machine in the 
landing, crawled out of the wreckage, got back 
to the 'drome, and taking over his repaired 
machine went out again. 

"That road's blocked," he said firmly, "and 
she's goin' to stay blocked." And he got his 
men to rig a sort of banner of fabric attached 
to a long iron picket-pin harpoon arrangement, 
painted a sentence in German on it, and took 
it up with him. They found the road still 



NO THOROUGHFARE 195 

blocked, but columns of troops tramping in 
streams over the fields to either side. They 
spent a full hour scattering these and chasing 
them all over the landscape, had to break off 
the game to take on another fight with a crowd 
of Hun scouts, were joined by a stray Flight 
or two who saw the fight and barged into it, 
and after a mixed fast and furious " dog-fight" 
at heights running from anything under 300 
feet to about as many inches, chased the Hun 
machines off. They came back in triumph 
down the deserted road and the empty fields, 
spattering the last of their rounds into the 
wrecked lorries and wagons still lying there, 
and then, as they passed over the piled wreckage 
at the crater, Dennis leaned out and dropped 
his streamered harpoon overboard. It plunged 
straight, hit, and stuck neatly upright displaying 
its legend clearly to anyone on the ground. 

"What was on it?" said Dennis in answer to 
the questions of the Flight later on. "It was 
a notice in German. Maybe it was bad German, 
but it was a dash good notice. It said 'No 
Thoroughfare,' and I fancy we've taught the 
Huns what it means anyhow." 

They, and a good many of their fellow squad- 
rons, had, on this and on other road and rail 
Lines of Communication. They lost men and 
they lost machines; but the expected fresh 
attack on the line did not develop at dusk as 
foretold. 

And that night the weary troops slept a solid 
life-renewing six hours. 



XVI 

THRILLS 

It was a bad day for kite-balloon work; first, 
because the air was not clear and the visibility 
was bad, and second, because there was an un- 
comfortable wind blowing, and the balloon was 
jerking and swaying and lurching at the end of 
its long tether, making it hard for the observers 
to keep a steady eye on such targets as they 
could pick up, and still harder to plot out angles 
and ranges on the map spread on the table 
sticking out from the side of the basket. 

But hard fighting was going on, and the line 
was getting badly hammered, so that every 
balloon which could get up was in the air, and 
every observer was hunting for hostile battery 
positions, directing the fire of our guns on to 
them, and doing all they could to lessen the 
shell-fire that was pouring down on our infantry 
in their scanty trenches. At times a swirl of 
mist or cloud came down and shut off the view 
altogether from the balloons; but they hung 
on, and stayed aloft waiting for a clear and 
the chance to observe a few more rounds the 
moment they got it. 

196 



THRILLS 197 

In one balloon the two observers had been 
sitting aloft for hours, after an early rising and 
a hurried breakfast. They had only been having 
fleeting targets at intervals as the haze cleared, 
but any danger of becoming bored was removed 
by the activities of a certain anti-balloon gun 
which did its best to shoot them down whenever 
it could get a sight on them, and by the excite- 
ment of watching out for an air attack whenever 
the low clouds came down and offered good 
cover to any Hun air man who cared to sneak 
over above them and chance an attack. 

When a blanketing mist crawled down over 
the target again, one observer swore disgustedly 
and spoke down the telephone. The second 
kept watch round and listened to the one-sided 
conversation. When it finished, the first ob- 
server turned to the map. "This is unpleasant, 
Dixie," he said, pointing to a spot on it. "We've 
lost the hill out there." 

"Lost the hill!" said Dixie disconsolately. 
"Don't talk to me about losing. I've lost my 
beauty sleep; I've lost interest; and if this 
cussed gas-bag doesn't stop behavin' like a 
cockle-boat in a tide-rip, I'm goin' to lose my 
breakfast next." 

"It's clearing a little again," said the other 
cheerfully. "Hope so, anyway. I want to 
finish that battery off. Can you see what the 
line's doing?" 

"Seems to be mainly occupied absorbin' Hun 
high explosive," said Dixie. "They don't look 
to be enjoyin' life down there any more'n I am 



198 THRILLS 

— an' that's not enough to write to the papers 
about." 

"There they go!" said the other. "Spot 
that flash? Let's get on with it. The P.B.I. 1 
down on the floor there want all the help we can 
give 'em." 

"You've said it, Boy," remarked Dixie, and 
turned to his spotting again. 

Both were hard at work five minutes later 
trying to pick up the burst of their shells and 
pass their observations down to the guns, when 
there came a whistle and a howl and a loud, 
rending c-r-r-rack! somewhere above them. 

"See here, Boy!" said Dixie. "This is 
gettin' too close to be pleasant, as the turkey said 
about Christmas. Can't we find where he's 
located and pitch a few back at him? I'm about 
tired of perchin' up here being made a cock-shy 
of." 

"Wait a bit," said Boy. "I'm almost finished 

with this other battery. Maybe Look 

out! Here she comes again ! " 

"Look out!" retorted Dixie, when the shell 
had howled up and burst in a cloud of filthy 
black smoke not more than a hundred yards out 
and on their level. "Pleasant prospect to look 
out at. Hades! Here's another. Say, Boy, 
this is gettin' too hot, as Casabianca said to the 
burnin' deck. He's got our elevation all right, 
and if we don't change it he'll get us next, 
for sure." 

The closeness of the shot had been observed 

1 Poor Blaaky Infantry. 



THRILLS 199 

below, and, after a brief telephoned talk, the 
balloon was hauled rapidly down a thousand 
feet. Another shell crashed angrily above them 
as it went down. 

The next hour was a highly unpleasant one 
to the two observers. The "anti" gun was 
plainly out to down them, and kept pitching 
shell after shell with most discomforting accuracy 
all around them. The winch below hauled them 
down and let them soar up to all sorts of vary- 
ing elevations in strenuous endeavours to cheat 
the gunners, while the two observers did their 
best to pick up targets and lay their guns on to 
them, and the anti shells continued to scream 
up and burst about them. Several times the 
explosions were so close that it appeared certain 
the envelope must be holed, and the observers 
stopped work and waited with held breath to 
discover whether they were sinking and if they 
would have to jump for it and trust to their 
parachutes. But the balloon held up, and the 
two continued their shoot. It was unpleasant, 
highly unpleasant, but the hard-pressed infantry 
wanted all the assistance the guns could give 
them, and the guns wanted all the help air 
observation could give; so the observers held on, 
and chanced the shells, and kept their guns going 
on such targets as they could pick out of the dull 
light and grey mist. 

It must be admitted that, as the time dragged 
past, the strain began to tell on the tempers 
of both men. The only respite they had from 
the continued torment of the anti-balloon gun 



200 THRILLS 

was when the mist closed down on them; and 
then the strain was in no way lessened, but 
altered only to that of watching out for an attack- 
ing enemy. 

And that looked-for attack came at last. 
There came a sudden and urgent call on the 
telephone from below, and both men strained 
their eyes out through the lifting haze to the 
next balloon in the line and, with an instinctive 
fumbling at the attachment of their parachute 
harness, made ready to jump. But what they 
saw held them spellbound for a moment. The 
next balloon in the line was being attacked. It 
was over a quarter of a mile away; but the 
silhouette of a plane could clearly be seen 
swooping down on the defenceless balloon, 
flashes of fire spitting and streaking from his 
guns as he came. The two balloon-men leaped 
over the edge of the basket. One plunged down 
the regulation distance, his parachute fluttered 
open with a shimmer of gleaming silk that looked 
exactly like a bursting puff of white smoke, 
began to drop down in wide pendulum swings. 
But with the second man's parachute something 
plainly had gone wrong. Dixie and the Boy, 
clutching the sides of their basket and staring 
horror-stricken, gasped as they saw the little 
figure go plunging plummet-wise hundreds after 
hundreds of feet . . . hundreds . . . thousands . . . 
and still the parachute followed in a solid un- 
opened black dot. The balloon was near 3,000 
feet up when the man jumped, and he and the 
parachute went down 3,000 feet, as a stone 



THRILLS 201 

would drop down a well. Dixie and the Boy- 
watched fascinated, tried to turn their heads 
or shut their eyes — and couldn't. 

When it was over, Dixie spoke hurriedly. 
" Come on, kid! Over! Or it's our turn next ! " 

But to watch a parachute fail to open, and the 
next instant to trust your life to the proper 
working of your own, is rather a severe test, 
and it is little wonder that both Dixie and the 
Boy waited another second watching and wait- 
ing before leaping over. They saw a lick of 
flame flicker along the top of the attacked 
balloon, die down, flash out again — and then 
caught sight of the Hun scout wheeling and 
heading for their balloon. The winch below was 
hauling down with frantic haste; but there is 
little hope of pulling down a K.B. 3,000 feet 
in anything like the time it takes a fast scout 
to cover 500 yards, and the Boy, taking a gulping 
breath, was on the point of jumping, when Dixie 
clutched at him and cried — croaked is a truer 
word — hoarsely at him. The new act of the 
drama was begun and ended almost quicker 
that the first. Out of the grey mist another 
plunging shape emerged, hurtling straight across 
the path of the enemy scout, its guns streaming 
fire, clattering a long postman-knock tat-tat-tat- 
tat. The enemy machine swerved violently, 
missed collision by bare yards, swept round, 
thrust his nose down and tried to dive away. But 
the other machine was after him and on him like 
a hawk after a pigeon, clinging to his tail and 
pelting fire at him. A gust of sooty black smoke 



202 THRILLS 

puffed from the leading machine, a spurt of 
flashing fire followed, and it went diving head- 
long with flame and clouds of smoke trailing 
after. 

"Boy," said Dixie unsteadily, "I've mighty 
near had balloonin' enough for one morning's 
amusement!" 

The telephone was calling, and the Boy turned 
to answer it. But before he spoke there rose 
to them again the shrieking rush of an approach- 
ing shell — a rush that rose to a shriek, a bellow, 
and ended in an appalling crash that sent the 
balloon reeling and jerking at its tether. Again 
both men fingered the parachute harness buckled 
about them and stared up intent and uneasy at 
the swaying envelope above them. Before they 
could decide whether it was hit or not another 
wailing yowl heralded another shell, another 
rending crash, another leaping cloud of black 
smoke just below them, the shriek and whistle 
of flying fragments up past them, told of another 
deadly close burst. Choking black smoke 
swirled up on them, and the Boy began to shout 
hurriedly into his telephone. 

"Tell 'em the basket's shot full of holes," 
said Dixie, "and my parachute's got a rip in 
it big enough to put your fist in. And tell " 

He broke off suddenly. The pitching, tossing, 
jerking of the tethered balloon had changed to 
a significant smoothness and dead calm. The 
Boy dropped his telephone receiver. "Dixie," 
he gasped, "we're — we're adrift!" 

Dixie took one swift look over the edge of 



THRILLS 203 

the basket. " You've said it," he drawled, 
"an' that ends the shoot, anyway." 

"Should we jump for it?" asked the Boy 
hurriedly. 

"If you feel like it, go ahead," said Dixie, 
"but not for mine, thank'ee. My parachute's 
shot up to glory, an', anyhow, we're driftin' 
back over our own lines. I'd as soon stay with 
her till she bumps." 

"I think she's dropping," said the Boy. 
"The shell that cut the cable, maybe, holed the 
gas-bag, and she'll come down with a run." 

"We're comin' down all right," said Dixie 
philosophically, "but not fast enough to hurt. 
You jump if you like. I'm goin' to hang on and 
pull the rippin'-cord when she's near the floor." 

But the remembrance of that other observer, 
falling like a bullet beneath an unopened para- 
chute, was too close to encourage the Boy to 
leap, and the two waited, hanging over the edge 
of the basket, watching the ground drift past 
beneath them, trying to gauge how fast the 
balloon was coming down. It fell slowly, very 
slowly, at first, losing height so gradually that it 
was hard even to say it was losing. It began to 
look as if the two were in for an easy and com- 
fortable descent without leaving the balloon. 
Then plainly the rate of descent began to quicken. 
The ground began to swirl up to them at an 
alarming speed; the balloon, which had up to 
now been drifting so smoothly that its mov- 
ment could hardly be felt, started to lurch down 
in sickening swerves and drops and swings. 



204 THRILLS 

"Boy," said Dixie seriously, "I dunno you 
hadn't better chance it an' jump. Looks like 
this ol' sausage was punctured bad, an' I'm 
gettin' to think she's goin' to phut out quick 
an' go down wallop. S'pose you jump, an' I 
hang on to her. My parachute " 

"Take mine," said the Boy quickly. "I'd 
as soon stay with her." 

"Nothin' doin'," answered Dixie. "Para- 
chute jumps is no popular pastime of mine at 
the moment, an' I don't mind ownin' to it." 

So both waited, Dixie with his hand on the 
ripping-cord, both with their heads over the side, 
their eyes fixed on the passing ground. There 
was a strong wind blowing, and, as they came 
closer to the ground, they began to discover the 
surprising speed at which they were travelling, 
to feel a good deal uneasy about the crash with 
which they must hit solid earth. The balloon 
was falling now at dangerous speed, and, worse, 
was coming down in a series of wild swings and 
swayings. 

"The wood!" shouted Dixie, pointing out 
and down. "Better crash her in it, eh?" 

"Go on," answered the Boy briefly. 

The next minute was rather a nightmare — a 
wild impression of a sickening plunge, of tearing 
crackling noises, of breaking branches, of a basket 
jerking, tossing, leaping, falling, bouncing and 
falling again, and finally coming to rest amongst 
the crashing tree-tops, hanging there a moment, 
tearing free and, falling and bringing up com- 
pletely with a bump amongst the lower branches, 



THRILLS 205 

while the envelope settled and sagged and flopped 
in another crescendo of cracklings and rippings 
and tearings on top of the trees. The two clung 
for dear life to their basket; were jerked and 
wrenched almost from their grip a dozen times; 
hung on expecting every moment to be their 
last; felt the basket at last settle and steady, 
and cease to do its best to hurl them overboard. 

They climbed over, caught stray cords, and 
slid thankfully to firm ground. "Did it ever 
strike you, Boy," said Dixie, "what a pleasant 
thing a lump of plain solid dirt under your feet 
can be?" 

That ended their adventure so far as the air 
was concerned. But it cost them an hour's 
tramp to find a main road and discover where 
they were; and another hour to tramp along it 
to a fair-sized town where there might be an inn 
or hotel. A mile-stone on the roadside gave 
them their whereabouts and surprised them by 
the distance they had drifted back. 

They set their faces east and began a steady 
tramp. The road was rather crowded with a 
stream of French civilians all moving west, and, 
as they walked, the crowd grew closer and more 
solid and showed plainer signs of haste and 
anxiety. There were no troops on the road; 
it was wholly filled with civilians — women and 
children and very old men for the best part, all 
laden with bundles or pulling or pushing or 
driving vehicles of every sort and description. 
There was a cow dragged behind an old woman 
and a child, a huge bed-mattress bundled and 



206 THRILLS 

roped on its back; a perambulator piled high 
with clothing and blankets, and with a baby 
nested down in the middle of the pile; an old 
man leading a young child and carrying a bird- 
cage with two full-sized chickens crammed into 
it; a decrepit cart and still more decrepit pony, 
with a load of furniture that might have filled 
a pantechnicon; a family, apparently of mother 
and five children of descending ages and sizes, 
but each with a bundle hugged close; an old 
bent woman tottering a step at a time on two 
sticks. All trailed along wearily in a slow 
drifting mass; and all, except the very young 
children, were casting uneasy glances over their 
shoulders, were evidently struggling to put as 
many paces as possible between them and 
their starting-point. 

Dixie and the Boy knew well what it all 
meant — merely the evacuation of another 
village that had come within shell-range of the 
Hun, or was near enough to the shifting battle- 
line to make it wise to escape before all in it 
were engulfed, made prisoner, and set to slavery 
in the fields on starvation rations for Hun task- 
masters, or, worse, deported, torn apart, child 
from mother, weak from strong, helpless from 
helpers, and deported to far-off factories or the 
terrors of an unknown fate. The French and 
Belgians have learned their lesson — learned it 
slow and hard and bitterly — that it is bad to be 
driven to leave all they own on earth, but 
infinitely worse to stay and still lose all, and 
more in the "all" than mere earthly possessions. 



THRILLS 207 

Dixie and the Boy tramped slowly against the 
tide of refugees and drew at last to near the town 
from which the stream was pouring. It was all 
very pitiful, very cruel. But worse was to come. 
The road was one of those long main national 
route highways common in France, running 
straight as a ruler for miles on end, up hill and 
down dale. The roofs of the village were half a 
mile away, and suddenly, over these roofs, an 
aeroplane came skimming. It flew low, and it 
flew in a bee-line along above the wide straight 
road; and as it flew there sounded louder 
and plainer the unmistakable ac-ac-ac-ac of a 
machine-gun; there was plainly to be seen a 
stream of spitting fire flashing from the flying 
shape. It swept nearer, and the clatter of its guns 
sounded now through a rising wail, a chorus of 
shrieks and calls and sharp screams, and the cries 
of frightened or hurt children. The gun shut off 
abruptly as the machine swooped up; burst 
out again in a long savage tattoo as it curved 
over and came roaring down in a steep dive. In 
the road there was a pandemonium of screams 
and cries : a wild turmoil of figures rushing hither 
and thither, flinging down into the ditches, 
scrambling over them and fleeing in terror out 
over the open fields. As the machine dived 
the two observers could see the streaking lines 
of the tracer bullets, hear the sharp cracks and 
smacks of explosives hitting the ground — and 
other things. They could only stand and curse 
in impotent rage, and the Hun machine, with a 
rush and a roar, spat a last handful of bullets 



208 THRILLS 

over and past them and was gone on down the 
road. The two stood and watched its graceful 
soaring and plunging, listened to the steady rattle 
of its guns, swore savagely again, then turned 
to help some of the shrieking women and crying 
children about them. But next moment another 
distant tat-tat-tat made them look up to see 
another black-crossed machine, and then a 
third, leap into sight over the village and come 
tearing down above the road. Dixie and the 
Boy both filled the few intervening seconds try- 
ing to hustle the fear-stricken villagers off the 
road down into the cover of the ditches, behind 
carts — anywhere that might be out of reach of 
the bullets. But the newcomers had gone one 
better than bullets for fiendish destruction. As 
the first one approached a black blob fell away 
from it, and next second there was a rending 
crash, a leaping cloud of smoke and dust whirl- 
ing and eddying up from the road. The machine 
roared over and past, with her machine-gun 
hailing bullets down the road, and far down the 
road came another billowing cloud of smoke and 
the crash of another bomb. The third machine 
followed close, also machine-gunning hard and 
also splashing bombs down at intervals, one 
falling with horrible effect fairly in a little crowd 
of women and children clustered under and behind 
a country cart. The cart was wrecked, and the 
horse and half of the women and children. . . . 
The two observers gave what help they could, 
their faces white and their hands shaking and 
their ears tingling as they worked. The whole 



, THRILLS 209 

scene after the passing of the destroyers was 
heart-rending 'and pitiful and far too horrible for 
description. And the cruel part of it was that 
it was all such useless destruction, such wanton 
savagery, such a brutal and wilful slaughter of 
the innocents. The low-fliers were too close 
down for there to be any possibility of their not 
knowing well what they were shooting and 
bombing. There was not a sign of a uniform on 
the road; it was packed with what clearly and 
unmistakably was a crowd of refugees, of help- 
less women and children. It was hard to 
imagine what the Huns hoped to gain, what 
object they could have had in such indiscrimin- 
ate murder; but, object or no object, its happen- 
ing is a matter of cold history. 

It was growing late when the two observers, 
continuing their journey, saw a distant aero- 
drome, made their way across the fields to it, 
explained themselves, and were offered dinner 
first, and then transport back to their unit. 

The two told their tale of the day while they 
waited with the Squadron for dinner to be served. 
It was dark by this time, and an annoying delay 
came before dinner in the shape of an order to 
put all lights out, and in the droning approach 
of some enemy bombers. They passed some- 
where overhead, and the machine-gun defences 
fired a few streams of ineffectual bullets up at 
them. One bomb whistled and shrieked down 
and burst noisily a few hundred yards from the 
'drome and others farther afield. The pilots 
and the two observers were collected again just 



210 THRILLS 

outside the door of the mess listening to the 
distant drone of the Hun bombers, watching the 
flicker and jump of gun flashes in the horizon 
and a red glare that rose in a wide steady glow 
from one or two points. It was an unpleasant 
reminder of the trying time the Army was having, 
of the retreat they had made, of the stores and 
dumps that had been fired to prevent the enemy 
taking possession of them. 

One of the pilots — a youngster of under twenty, 
with two wound stripes on his cuff — laughed 
suddenly. "That Hun bomber just about 
rounds off a complete day of frightfulness for 
you two fellows," he said. "You have had a 
lively time, one way and another." 

"We have," said Dixie. "I've had thrills 
enough for this day to fill a boy's adventure 
library full an' overflowin'. " 

"Too many for me," said the Boy, "when I 
think of watching that man go down with an 
unopened parachute." 

"It was worse seeing that Hun come down the 
road," said Dixie, "and bein' able to do nothin' 
to stop him. An' when I think of that mother 
with a dead baby, an' that kid — a girl — about 

five years old, that an explosive bullet " 

And he stopped abruptly. 

There was silence for a minute, broken by the 
young pilot. 

"Speaking of thrills," he said, and laughed 
again, "there was a paragraph — some of you 
will remember how we grinned over it. Wonder 
if I could find the paper? It would tickle you 
diving balloonatics especially. I'll see," and he 



THRILLS 211 

disappeared into the mess-room and began to 
hunt round with an electric torch. 

He found the paper and brought it out and 
read the paragraph by the light of his torch. 
It was headed "60,000 Thrills," and it ran: 1 
"A Blanktown cable, received by the Chief 
Representative for Blancountry, states: At an 
aquatic carnival, held by the Big Stone Swim- 
ming Club at Light Falls, there was an attend- 
ance of 60,000. The proceeds go to the Soldier's 
Fund. Prince Walkiyick — known as Alec 
Walker the Middle Seas sprint champion — 
dived from a height of 200 feet into the water. 
He was two seconds in the air and thrilled the 
spectators with his exploit." 

"Good Lord!" said the Boy helplessly. 

"Thrilled the spectators," repeated Dixie. 
"Thrilled . . . well, if that doesn't take it." 

The young pilot was laughing again, long and 
immoderately, and some of the others, looking 
at the two observers' faces, had to join him. 

"Sixty thousand, you said," the Boy was be- 
ginning, when he was interrupted by a distant 
boom — boom — boom. 

" Huns bombing Blanqueville again," said the 
young pilot. "More women and kid casualties, 
I suppose." 

Dixie was cursing, low but very intensely. 

"If those spectators are out for thrills " he 

said, and looked to where a red glow was begin- 
ning to rise in the sky over Blanqueville. 

1 Except that names are altered, the paragraph is reprinted 
here word for word as it appeared in a daily paper and was 
read by thousands of men in the line at the time of the first 
retreat in the spring of 1918. I have the cutting now. — B. C 



XVII 

THE SEQUEL 

There was a strike in one of the aircraft 
factories; in fact, there were simultaneous 
strikes in many, if not most, of the factories, 
although for the moment this story is con- 
cerned only with one of them — or rather with 
its sequel. At the front they knew little or 
nothing of the strike, although, unfortunately, 
they knew a good deal of the result. On the 
other hand, the workers probably know nothing 
of what their strikes may mean to the front, 
and this is what I want to tell them. They 
have, it is true, been publicly told by a member 
of the Government that the strikes resulted in 
a waste of so many hours' work, a shortage 
or reduction of output of some hundreds of 
machines, and so on; but these things are a 
matter of cold figures. If they are told the 
result in flesh and blood, they may look at a 
strike in rather a different light. 

One Squadron in France first "felt the breeze" 
of the strike in a drying up of the stream of 
"spares" and parts that are constantly required 
for repair, and the mechanics having to make 

212 



THE SEQUEL 213 

good this shortage by many night hours' sheer 
hard labour, by working long shifts when they 
ought to have been sleeping, by hacking out 
with cold chisel and hammer, and turning upon 
overworked lorry-shop lathes, and generally 
making by hand what the idle machines in the 
factories should have been punching out in 
dozens on a stamping machine, or turning com- 
fortably on automatic lathes. 

That was a minor item of the strike's sequel. 
Another and more serious item in the same 
Squadron was that one or two machines, which 
had been marked off for return to the depots 
and complete overhaul and setting up, had to 
be kept in commission and hard at work. This 
was unpleasantly risky, because at this time 
the Squadron was very actively engaged in the 
preparation for a coming Push, and the machines 
were putting in even more than a fair average 
of flying hours. The life of a machine is strictly 
limited and countable in these "flying hours," 
and after a certain life machine and engine, 
with constant wear, and despite regular and 
careful looking after by the Squadron mechanics, 
come to be so strained and shaky that for safe 
flying they must have such a thorough overhaul 
and tuning up that it almost amounts to a 
rebuilding. 

One particular machine in the Squadron — 
the old "Gamecock" — had for some time back 
been getting rather rickety and was to have 
been replaced before the anticipated heavy 
operations of the air activity that would open 



/- 



214 THE SEQUEL 

the way for the Push. One out of those hun- 
dreds of the strike's lost machines should have 
come to the Squadron to release the "Game- 
cock," but, of course, when it did not come 
there was nothing for it but to keep the "Game- 
cock" flying. She managed to get through 
her share in the work without any further 
trouble than a still further straining, and an 
engine which for all the labour lavished on it 
grew more and more unreliable. She carried 
on up to the actual morning of the Push, and 
her pilot and observer, the Flight and Squadron 
Commanders alike heaved sighs of relief to 
think that the rush was nearly over, that there 
would be no further urgent need to risk her in 
the air. But as it happened their relief was 
premature, and there was still a "show" and 
a serious one for the "Gamecock" to take a 
part in. 

The Squadron was an artillery observing one, 
whose work it was to fly over the enemy's 
lines and observe the fire of our batteries on 
selected targets, and, "spotting" where their 
shells fell, wireless back to our guns the necessary 
corrections of aim to bring them on the target. 
The night before the Push a reconnoitring 
Squadron had discovered a fresh group of 
enemy batteries, and Headquarters allotted the 
destruction of these to various batteries in con- 
junction with certain artillery flying Squadrons. 
The "Gamecock's" Squadron was included, 
and since there was already a heavy morning's 
work portioned out to the Squadron, there was 



THE SEQUEL 215 

nothing for it but to detail the "Gamecock" 
to help handle the fresh job. 

"Do it?" said her pilot scornfully in answer 
to a doubting question from the observer. 
"Course she can do it, and a dozen jobs on top 
of it. There's nothing wrong with her." 

"Oh no, nothing whatever," said the observer 
sarcastically. "You'd claim there was nothing 
wrong with her if her engine turned round once 
a week, or if her planes were warped like a letter 
S. How many times did her engine cut out 
to-day? And she was rattling like a bag of 
old bones when you were stunting her to dodge 
those 'Archies,' till I thought she was going 
to shake herself into the scrap-heap right away." 

"Rats," said the pilot stoutly. "She's strong 
as a house." 

The Flight Commander evidently did not 
agree with him, to judge by the conversation 
he had that night with the CO. "I hate send- 
ing the 'Gamecock,'" he said. "But I suppose 
there's no help for it." 

"Afraid not," said the Major. "Every 
machine had enough to do before, and this 
new job will give them all their hands full. 
We just must send every machine we've got." 

The Flight Commander sighed. "All right. 
I do wish they'd replaced her though, as they 
promised to do a week ago. Wonder why they 
haven't." i 

"Well, a machine isn't made as easy as 
knitting a sock, you know," said the Major. 
"I dare say it's a hard job to keep up to the 



.216 THE SEQUEL 

wastage. Four machines we've had crashed 
and replaced ourselves in this last week. I 
suppose those people in the factories can't keep 
up the pace, even working night and day." 
(The Squadrons knew little or nothing of the 
strikes then. What they and the Major would 
have said if they had known, what they did 
say when they came to know, is a different 
story — quite a different story.) \ 

There was just one hour of light before the 
time set for the attack, the "zero hour" when 
the infantry would go over the top, and that 
hour was filled with a final intensive bombard- 
ment that set the earth and air quivering like 
a beaten drum. The " Gamecock" and the 
rest of the Squadron were up and over the 
lines with the first glint of light, and the fighting 
scouts were out with them and busily scrapping 
with any Hun machines that came near or tried 
to interfere with the artillery and reconnoitring 
machines. 

The "Gamecock" waddled off to her ap- 
pointed place, and after picking up the targets 
with a good deal of difficulty, owing to the 
billowing clouds of shell smoke and dust, and 
getting in wireless touch with the first battery, 
the observer waited till the machine was in a 
favourable position to let him see the shot and 
signalled the battery to fire. For half an 
hour the "Gamecock" circled steadily with a 
fairly heavy "Archie" fire breaking about her, 
and the observer picking up one target after 
another and putting the guns on to it. As 



THE SEQUEL 217 

fast as he signalled back that a direct hit had 
been obtained he went on to the next target 
and observed for another battery, while the 
battery he had just finished with proceeded to 
pour a hurricane of high explosive on the spot 
it had "registered," and to blot the enemy 
battery there out of active existence. 

Then the "Gamecock's" work was inter- 
rupted. A couple of Hun scouts dropped like 
plummets out of the clouds and dived straight 
for the "Gamecock," their machine-guns rattling 
rapidly as they came. The observer at the 
first sound of their shots whipped round from 
where he was hanging overside watching his 
target below, glanced up and grabbed for his 
machine-gun. He hastily jerked the muzzle 
in the direction of the coming Huns and ripped 
off a burst of fire, and at the same moment 
heard the sharp hiss of their passing bullets, 
saw the streaking flashes of fire from their 
tracers flame by. One hostile finished his dive 
in a sharp upward "zoom" just before he 
came down to the level of the "Gamecock," 
whirled round in a climbing turn, plunged 
straight down again at the "Gamecock," open- 
ing fire as he came, and before reaching her 
level repeated his tactics of zooming up and 
turning. The other Hun hurtled down past 
the "Gamecock's" tail, turned under her, and 
whirled upward, firing at her underbody. The 
observer ceased fire a moment and tapped 
back a message on his wireless to the battery 
saying the last round was "unobserved," He 



218 THE SEQUEL 

used the code of course which condenses messages 
into one or two Morse letters, and knowing that 
the battery would not fire until he passed the 
word that he was ready again, he turned his 
attention to driving off the two machines that 
plunged firing at them. The underneath one 
was practically concealed from him, so he 
first directed a carefully aimed burst of fire on 
the top one as once more it dived on them and 
its bullets whipped flaming past. He put in 
another burst as the Hun spun up and away 
again, then leaned out over the side and just 
caught a glimpse of the lower machine driving 
up at them. He swung his machine-gun round 
on its turret mounting a'nd, thrusting the 
muzzle down, rattled off a score of rounds. At 
the same moment he heard the crack and rip 
of bullets tearing through their wings, and heard 
also the sharp rat-tat-tat of the overhead enemy's 
gun reopening fire. The observer swung his 
gun upward again, took a long breath, and 
directed careful aim on the body whirling down 
on them. He realised that the game was too 
one-sided, that with two fast enemies attacking 
in concert from above and below, it was merely 
a matter of minutes for the "Gamecock" to 
be sunk, unless he could down one of the two 
hostiles first. He opened fire carefully and 
steadily. 

Up to now the pilot had been unable to take 
any part in the fight, because his gun only fired 
directly forward and the Huns had taken care 
to keep astern of him. But now he suddenly 



THE SEQUEL 219 

throttled down and checked the speed of the 
"Gamecock" by thrusting her nose up and 
"stalling" her. The move answered, and next 
instant the upper machine swept forward and 
up and ahead of them. The pilot opened his 
engine full out and drove for his enemy, pelt- 
ing fire upon her. His bullets went straight 
and true to their mark, and the Hun, hearing 
them tear through his fabrics, dipped over and 
plunged hastily down a full thousand feet. The 
"Gamecock" heaved herself over and dived 
after him with the pilot's gun still going. Al- 
most immediately he heard the observer's gun 
firing, and, stopping his own, glanced over 
his shoulder and saw the full width of the other 
Hun's wings wheeling close astern of them. 
Immediately he checked his dive and flattened 
out to give his observer a fair shot, and knew 
instantly from the long-sustained rattle of the 
observer's gun that the chance had been seen 
and taken. 

He leaned out and peered down for sight 
of the other machine, and then — his heart 
jumped at the unmistakable sound and throb 
— his engine missed, picked up, missed again, 
cut out, and stopped completely. The "Game- 
cock's" speed, held as she was at the moment 
on a slightly upward slant, began to fall 
away, and the pilot hurriedly thrust her nose 
down and went off in a long glide, while he 
tried desperately every device he knew to get 
his engine started again. There was no sign 
of the petrol leaking, so he knew the tanks were 



220 THE SEQUEL 

not hit, but on the off-chance he switched 
on to the emergency tank — without result. 
Oil pressure was all right, and — he broke off 
to glance round as the rattle of fire came again 
to his ear. His observer was standing up 
blazing at one machine which swooped after 
them closing in on the one side, while the other 
climbed and swung in from the other. The 
pilot groaned. There was just a last faint 
chance that they might manage to glide with- 
out engine back over the line, provided the 
observer could stand off the two attackers 
and prevent the " Gamecock" being shot to 
pieces. The chance was so small that it was 
hardly worth taking, but since it was the last 
and only chance the pilot swept round until 
his nose was for home, gave the " Gamecock" 
a good downward plunge to get her speed up, 
eased into a glide, and turned his attention to 
the engine again. The two hostiles, supposing 
his engine hit or at least seeing it out of action, 
leaped after and past the "Gamecock," and, 
whirling inward, each poured a burst of fire 
upon her. They were repeating the tactic, 
which shielded them from the observer's fire, 
and the "Gamecock's" chances began to 
fade to nothingness, when the game took a 
fresh turn. A scarlet-nosed grey shape flashed 
up out of nowhere apparently, past the "Game- 
cock" — as swiftly past her as if she were stand- 
ing still — and hurtled straight at the nearest 
Hun, spitting a stream of fire upon him. The 
Hun, with the bullets hailing and cracking 



THE SEQUEL 221 

about him, checked and wheeled; but without 
a break the stream of drumming bullets beat 
and tore in under his fuselage, and just as the 
red and grey scout zoomed up and over him he 
dived, a spurt of fire flashed out from him, and 
he whirled down out of the fight with black 
smoke pouring from him in clouds. The other 
hostile spun round and streaked off, with our 
victorious scout tearing after him. And at 
that moment the "Gamecock's" engine sput- 
tered, stopped, spat and sputtered again, picked 
up and droned out in full song. 

The observer seized the communicating 'phone 
and shouted into it. "Are we damaged, d'you 
know?" 

"Lord knows," the pilot shouted back. "She 
seems to be running all right though. What 
next?" 

"Back where we broke off the shoot," yelled 
the observer. "Three batteries to put 'em on 
yet; and look at the time." 

The pilot glanced at his clock. It was nearing 
the "zero hour," the moment when the infantry 
would be swarming out into the open No Man's 
Land — and into the fire of those enemy batteries 
upon which the "Gamecock" had not yet 
directed our guns. Both pilot and observer 
knew how much it meant to have those hostile 
batteries silenced. The word had come from 
Headquarters and had passed down to the 
Squadron that it was very certain, from the 
fact that the batteries had been kept concealed 
and had not fired up to now, they were meant 



222 THE SEQUEL 

to be used for repelling the attack, that they 
would be reserved and unmasked only when 
the infantry began their advance, that they 
would then unloose a tempest of destroying fire 
on the attackers. 

And because both pilot and observer had 
served a time in the infantry before they joined 
the Flying Corps, they knew just what it meant 
to the infantry to have such a fire to make way 
against, and both turned anxiously back to 
complete their job. 

Down below the ground was hidden under a 
drifting haze of smoke and dust, and the "Game- 
cock" circled slowly while pilot and observer 
searched for their objectives. They found the 
other spots on which they had directed the 
guns — spots which now were marked by whirling, 
eddying clouds through which the bursting 
high-explosive still flamed red at quick inter- 
vals. From there at last they found the next 
target, and the observer hastily signalled back 
to his battery to fire. The engine was giving 
trouble again, missing every now and then, 
running slowly and laboriously, while the 
pilot fiddled and fretted about throttle and 
spark and petrol feed and tried to coax her into 
better running. The observer failed to catch 
the puffing smoke of the battery's first shot and 
signalled the code to fire again. Before the 
next shot came, a stutter of machine-gun fire 
broke out overhead, and pilot and observer 
glanced quickly up at the clouds that drifted 
over and hid the fighters. The machine-gun 



THE SEQUEL 223 

fire rose and fell in gusts, and then out of the 
cloud 1,000 feet up a machine whirled and spun 
down past them, recovered an instant and shot 
eastward in a steep gliding plunge, fell away 
suddenly, and crashed amongst the trenches. 

Immediately after her there fell out of the 
sky a cluster of machines, wheeling and circling 
and diving at each other like a swarm of fighting 
jackdaws. The " Gamecock" suddenly found 
herself involved in a scrimmaging mix-up with- 
out her crew knowing who or what was in it. 
A pair of wings, with thick black crosses painted 
on them, whizzed across the "Gamecock's" 
bows, and the pilot promptly ripped off a quick 
burst of fire at her as she passed. " Never 
mind them," shouted the observer, "get on 
with the shoot," and leaned out from his cockpit 
to watch for the fall of the next shell. |The 
"Gamecock" resumed her steady circling, while 
the fight raged round and over her and drifted 
in wheeling rushes clear of her and away quarter, 
half a mile to the south. 

But they were not to be left unmolested. A 
Hun two-seater dropped out of the fight and 
raced at the "Gamecock," putting in a burst of 
fire from his bow gun as he came, wheeling 
round the "Gamecock's" stern and pouring 
bullets on her from the observer's gun. The 
hostile was tremendously fast, and the "Game- 
cock" with her crotchety engine was no match 
for him. The observer, for all his anxiety to 
finish the shoot, was forced to defend himself, and 
he turned to his gun with black rage in his heart. 



224 THE SEQUEL 

" Brute," he growled, and loosed a stream of 
bullets at the shape astern. "I'd like to down 
you just for your beastly interference," and his 
gun rattled off another jet of bullets. The enemy 
swooped down and under the ''Gamecock's" 
tail with his gun hammering viciously. The 
pilot lifted her nose so as to sink the tail planes 
and rudder clear of the observer's line of fire 
and give him a shot, but the "Gamecock" had 
barely speed enough for the manoeuvre, lost 
way, stalled badly, slid backward with a rush, 
and plunged down. 

They were dangerously low for such a fall, 
and the pilot waited heart in mouth for the 
instant when she would right herself enough 
for him to resume control. He caught her 
at last and straightened her out, and at the 
same instant her enemy following her down 
dived past and up under her, where he was 
out of reach of the observer's gun. The pilot 
wrenched her round in a narrow circle that 
brought her pivoting on her wing-tip, and 
allowed the observer to look and point his gun 
straight overside and directly down on the 
enemy. He got off one short burst, and this 
time saw some of his tracer bullets break in 
sparks of fire about the fuselage and pilot's 
cockpit. They did damage too, evidently, be- 
cause the Hun broke off the action, drove off 
full pelt to the eastward just as the " Game- 
cock" dropped in a dangerous side-slip. Again 
her pilot caught and steadied her, and began 
to climb her slowly and staggeringly to a higher 



THE SEQUEL 223 

level. Those last wrenching turns and plunges 
had been too severe a strain on her shaken 
frame, and now, as she climbed, both pilot and 
observer could hear and feel a horrible jarring 
vibration. They were not more than 3,000 
feet up, but the engine threatened to refuse to 
lift them higher, and when it choked and stut- 
tered and missed again, the " Gamecock" shiv- 
ered and almost stalled once more. The pilot 
hurriedly thrust her nose down and swept down 
in a long rush to pick up flying speed again. 
"Get on," he yelled back. "Get on with your 
shoot. I daren't try'n climb her, and there's 
no stunt left in her if another Hun comes. A 
brace parted in that last scrap" — and he turned 
to his engine again, and swung the "Gamecock" 
in a wide circle. 

Once more the observer signalled his battery 
to fire. This time there was no difficulty in 
finding his target, because the "zero hour" 
had come; there were little dots swarming 
out over the No Man's Land below, and the 
hostile batteries the "Gamecock" was looking 
for were flaming out in rapid sheets of vivid 
fire, and their shells pounding down amongst 
our infantry. The "Gamecock" circled slowly 
over the batteries, losing height steadily, be- 
cause her pilot had to keep her nose down so 
that the glide would help out her failing engine 
and maintain her flying speed. Her observer 
was picking out shell-burst after shell-burst 
with greater and greater difficulty in the reek 
below, signalling back the corrections to the guns. 



226 THE SEQUEL 

By now the " Gamecock" was low enough 
to come within range of the rifles and machine- 
guns turned up on her. The batteries below 
her knew that she was "spotting" on them, 
and did everything possible to knock her out; 
while their gunners, having at last got the word 
of the beginning of the attack, opened a furious 
rate of fire barraging the No Man's Land, The 
observer above them saw those streaming flashes, 
and knowing what they meant, stuck doggedly 
to his task, although now the bullets were hissing 
close and thick about them, and the windage 
from the rushing shells of our own heavy guns 
and the air-eddies from the guns firing below 
set the " Gamecock" rocking and bumping 
and rolling like a toy boat in a cross tide. The 
observer felt a jarring crash under his hand, 
a stab of pain in his fingers and up his arm. 
The wireless instrument had been smashed by 
a bullet as he tapped a signal. He shouted to 
the pilot, and the pilot slowly turned a white, 
set face to him and called feebly into the 'phone. 
"Hit" was the only word the observer caught; 
and "Get her back as far as you can and shove 
her down anywhere," he shouted instantly in 
answer* The "Gamecock" swung slowly round 
and lurched drunkenly back towards their own 
lines. The observer looked at his clock. It 
was already past the "zero hour." 

Down below in the front line the battalions 
had waited for that moment, crouched in the 
bottom of their trenches, listening to the rolling 
thunder of the guns, glancing at watches, examin- 



THE SEQUEL 227 

ing and re-examining rifles and bombs and equip- 
ment. One battalion in the Elbow Trench had 
been shelled rather heavily about dawn, but 
the fire had died away before the moment for 
the attack, smothered probably by the greater 
volume of our artillery fire. At last a word 
passed down the trench, and the men began to 
clamber out and form into line beyond their 
own wire. They could see nothing of the enemy 
trench, although it was only little more than 
150 yards away. Its outline was hidden in 
a thick haze of smoke, although its position 
was still marked by spouting columns of smoke 
and flying earth and debris from our bursting 
shells. But exactly on the "zero hour" these 
shell-bursts ceased and over the heads of the 
infantry the lighter shrapnel began to rip and 
crash, pouring a torrent of bullets along the 
earth in front of the line as it started to move 
forward. 

There was little rifle or machine-gun fire to 
oppose the advance, and although many shells 
were passing over, only odd and ill-directed 
ones were dropping in the open No Man's 
Land. It began to look as if the steadily- 
moving line was going to reach the first trench 
with very little loss. But suddenly, with sharp 
whooping rushes, a string of shells fell in a precise 
line exactly across the path of the advancing 
battalion; and before their springing smoke- 
clouds had fairly risen, came another crashing 
and crackling burst of shells along the same 
line; and then there fell a thick curtain of 



.228 THE SEQUEL 

smoke and fire along the battalion's front, a 
curtain out of which the rapidly falling shells 
flamed and winked in red and orange glares, 
and the flying splinters screeched and whined 
and whirred. 

The left half of the battalion came through 
fairly lightly, for the barrage was mainly across 
the path of the right half, but that right half 
was simply shot to pieces. The bursting 
shells caught the men in clumps, the ragged 
splinters cut others down one by one in rapid 
succession. The line pressed on doggedly, stum- 
bling and fumbling through the acrid smoke and 
fumes, stunned and dazed by the noise, the 
crashing shock of the detonations, the quick- 
following splashes of blinding light that flamed 
amongst them. The line pressed on and came 
at last — what was left of it — through the wall 
of fire. Behind it the torn ground was lit- 
tered thick with huddled khaki forms, with 
dead lying still and curiously indifferent to 
the turmoil about them, with wounded crawl- 
ing and dragging themselves into shell-craters 
in desperate but vain attempts to escape the 
shells and shrieking fragments that still deluged 
down from the sky amongst them. The 
remains of the line staggered on, the men pant- 
ing and gasping and straining their eyes eagerly 
for sight of the parapet ahead that marked 
their first objective, that would give them 
cover from the raging shell-fire, that would 
need nothing more than a few minutes' bomb 
and bayonet work to make their own. 



THE SEQUEL 229 

They were just taking vague comfort, such 
of them as had thought for anything but the 
trench ahead and the hope of clearing the deadly 
No Man's Land, at finding themselves through 
that barraging wall of flame and rending steel, 
when the yelling rushes of the overhead shells 
paused a moment, to burst out again with 
full renewed violence next instant as the enemy 
guns shortened their range. The barrage had 
dropped back, the curtain of fire was again 
rolling down, spouting and splashing and flaming 
across the path of the shattered battalion. 
The broken line pushed on and into the barrage 
again . . . and from it this time emerged no 
more than a scattered handful of dazed and 
shaken men. But the parapet was close ahead 
now, and the handful took fresh grip of their 
rifles and ran at it. Some fifty men perhaps 
reached it; the rest of a full 500 were left lying 
on the open behind them, waiting for the stretcher 
bearers — or the burying parties. 

The "Gamecock's" pilot managed to bring 
her back into the lines of our old trenches and 
pancaked her, dropped her flat and neatly into 
a thicket of barbed wire that clutched and rent 
her to ribbons, but held her from turning over. 

The observer clambered, and the pilot was 
lifted down from the cockpits and taken to a 
dug-out where a First Aid Post had been estab- 
lished. The Post and the trenches round it 
were crowded with wounded men. The pilot 
was attended to — he was already far spent 
with two bad body wounds — and the observer 



230 THE SEQUEL 

while he had his hand dressed asked for news of 
the attack. " Don't know much," said the 
doctor, " except that my own battalion had a 
bad doing. Left half got over with little loss 
but the right half had to go through a barrage 
and was just about wiped out. These" — with 
a jerk of his head to the casualties — "are some 
of 'em. But most are out there — killed." 

"I saw the barrage as we came back," said 
the observer bitterly. "Across the Elbow 
Trench? Yes, and about the only bit of the 
whole line they managed to barrage properly. 
And they could only do that because we couldn't 
out the guns that laid it down. Couldn't do 
our job properly and counter-battery them 
because we were up on a crock of a 'bus that the 
Huns could fly rings round, and that let us down 
into rifle range and got him" — nodding his 
head at the recumbent pilot — "his dose. All 
just for want of a good machine under us." 

"Chuck it, old man," said the pilot faintly. 
"The old 'Gamecock' did her best . . . and 
stood to it pretty well considering." 

"Mighty well," said the observer hastily, 
suddenly aware that he had spoken louder than 
he meant. "I'm not grousing. It's a sheer 
matter of luck after all. How d'you feel now? 
Any easier?" 

But he was wrong. It was not luck. It was 
the Sequel. The doubtfully efficient machine 
sent on dangerous work, the unsilenced batteries 
and high-explosive barrage, the hundreds of 
dead men lying out in the open, the "Game- 



THE SEQUEL 231 

cock's" pilot dying slowly there in the trampled 
mud of the dug-out under the flickering candles' 
light were all part of the Sequel — a sequel, of 
which the aircraft strikers had never thought, 
to a strike of which the dead and dying men had 
never even heard. 



"We were battered all round the ring at first, 

We were hammered to hell and back, 
But we stood to old Frightful Fritz's worst 

And we came for another whack. 
Now the fight's swung round; now we're winning fast, 

And we'll make it a knock-out too, 
If Home doesn't let us down at the last, 

If our backers will see it through." 



XVIII 

THE RAID-KILLERS 

The stout man in the corner of the First Smoker 
put down his paper as the train ran through the 
thinning outskirts of the town and into patches 
of suburban greenery. It was still daylight, 
but already the pale circle of an almost full moon 
was plain to be seen. "Ha," said the stout man, 
"perfect night!" An elderly little man in the 
opposite corner also glanced out of the window. 
"Perfect," he agreed, "bit too perfect. Full 
moon, no wind, clear sky, no clouds. All means 
another raid to-night, I suppose." The full 
compartment for the next few minutes bubbled 
with talk of raids, and Gothas, and cellars, and 
the last raid casualties, and many miraculous 
escapes. | There were many diverse opinions on 
all these points, but none on the vital one.— .lit 
iWas accepted by all that it was a perfect night 
for a raid and that the Gothas would be over — 
certain — some time before morning. 

Dusk was just beginning to fall on an aero- 
drome in the British lines when the big black 
machines were rolled out of the hangars and lined 
up in a long row on the grass. Pilots and 

232 



THE RAID-KILLERS 233 

Observers, already in flying kit, were moving 
about amongst the machines and watching the 
final touches put to the preparations for the 
trip. The Squadron Commander stood talking 
to the Pilot and Observer of the machine which 
was to lead the way. He glanced at his watch 
for the tenth time in as many minutes. "You've 
got a perfect night for it, anyhow," he said. 
"Topping," agreed the Pilot. "And just as 
perfect for the Huns' trip to England," said 
the Observer. "Wonder how H.Q. are so sure 
about them starting on a raid from Blanken- 
querke 'drome to-night," remarked the Pilot. 
The Squadron Commander grinned. "They're 
certain about a heap of things," he said. "They 
don't always come off, maybe, but they get on 
the mark wonderfully well as a rule. Anyhow, 
they were dead positive about the reliability of 
the information to-night." 

"Wouldn't take a witch or an Old Moore to 
make a prophecy on it to-night," said the Ob- 
server with a laugh. "Knowing how full out 
the old Hun has been lately to strafe London, 
an;L seeing what a gorgeous night it is, I'd have 
made a prophecy just as easy as H.Q. I'd even 
have made a bet, and that's better evidence." 

"Ought to' be getting ready," said the 
Squadron Commander, with another look at his 
watch. "Plenty of time, but we can't afford 
to risk any hitch. You want to be off at the 
tick of the clock." 

"Be an awful swindle, certainly, if we got there 
and found the birds flown," said the Observer. 



234 THE RAID-KILLERS 

"Don't fret," said the CO. "The Lord ha' 
mercy on 'em if they try to take off while old 
Jimmy's lot are keeping tab on 'em, or before 
it's too dark for him to see them move." 

There were a few more not-for-publication 
remarks on the usefulness of "Jimmy's lot," and 
the effectiveness of the plans for "keeping tab" 
on the German 'drome, and Pilot and Observer 
turned to climb to their places. "All things 
considered," said the Observer, "I'm dashed if 
I'd fancy those Huns' job these times. We 
give 'em rather a harrying one way and another. 
Must be wearin' to the nerves." 

The Pilot grunted. "What about ours?" he 
said. 

The Observer laughed. "Ours," he said, and, 
as the joke sank in, laughed again more loudly, 
and climbed to his place still chuckling. 

For the next ten minutes the air vibrated to 
the booming roar of the engines as they ran up, 
were found in good order, and eased off. The 
dusk was creeping across the sky and blurring 
the trees beyond the aerodrome, and overhead 
the moon was growing a deeper and clearer 
yellow. The Squadron Commander walked 
along the line and spoke a few words to the 
different Pilots sitting ready and waiting. He 
walked back to the Leader's machine and 
nodded his head. "All ready," he shouted; 
"just on time. Push off soon as you like now 
— and good luck." 

The quiet "ticking over" of the propeller 
speeded up and up until the blades dissolved 



THE RAID-KILLERS 235 

into quivering rays of faint light; the throaty- 
hum deepened, grew louder and louder, stayed 
a moment on the fullest note, sank again, and 
as the Pilot signalled and the chocks were jerked 
clear rose roaring again, while the machine 
rolled lumbering and lurching heavily out into 
the open, its navigation lights jerking and jump- 
ing as it merged into the darkness. The lights 
swung in a wide curve, slowed and steadied, 
began to move off at increasing speed to where a 
pin-point of light on the ground gave the pilot a 
course to steer, lifted smoothly and on a long 
slant, and went climbing off into the dark. 

The moonlight was clear and strong enough 
for men on the ground to see all sorts of details 
of the machines still waiting, the mechanics about 
them, the hangars and huts round the 'drome. 
But no more than seconds after it had left the 
ground the rising machine was gone from sight, 
could only be followed when and as its lights 
gleamed back. Once it swept droning overhead, 
and then circled out and boomed off straight for 
the lines. 

Pilot and Observer were both long-trained 
and skilled night-fliers. They crossed the line 
at the selected point and at a good height, look- 
ing down on the quivering patchwork ribbon 
of light and shadow that showed the No Man's 
Land and the tossing flare lights from the 
trenches, the spurting flashes of shell-bursts, 
the jumping pin-prick lights from the rifles. 
The engine roar drowned all sound, until sud- 
denly a yowl and a rending ar-r-r-gh close astern 



236 THE RAID-KILLERS 

told them that Archie was after them. Faintly 
they heard too the quick wisp-wisp of passing 
machine-gun or rifle bullets, the sharp crack of 
one or two close ones, and then silence again 
except for the steady roar of the engine and the 
wind by their ears. 

Ahead of them a beam of light stabbed up 
into the sky, swept slowly in widening circles, 
jerked back across and across. The big machine 
barely swung a point off her course, held steadily 
to a line that must take her almost over the spot 
from which the groping finger of light waved. A 
spit of flame licked upward, followed quickly by 
another and another, and next instant three 
quick glares leaped and vanished in the darkness 
ahead. A second search-light flamed up, and 
then a third, and all three began swinging their 
beams up and down to cover the path the bomber 
must cross. The bomber held straight on, but 
a quarter of a mile from the waving lights the 
roar of her engine ceased and she began to glide 
gently towards them. The lights kept their 
steady to-and-fro swinging for a moment; the 
Night-Flier swam smoothly towards them, swung 
sharply as one beam swept across just clear of 
her nose, dodged behind it, and on past the 
moving line of light. One moment Pilot and 
Observer were holding their breath and staring 
into a vivid white radiance; the next the radi- 
ance was gone and they were straining their 
eyes into a darkness that by contrast was black 
as pitch. The engine spluttered, boomed, and 
roared out again; the lights astern flicked round 



\ 



THE RAID-KILLERS 237 

and began groping wildly after them, and spurt 
after spurt of fire from the ground, glare after 
glare in the darkness round and before them, told 
that Archie was hard at it again. The Observer 
leaned over to the Pilot's ear and shouted 
" Dodged 'em nicely." 

"Jacky's turn next," answered the Pilot, and 
began glancing back over his shoulder. " There 
he comes," he shouted, and looking back both 
could see a furious sputter of shell-bursts in the 
sky, the quick searching sweeps of the lights 
where the second Night-Flier was running the 
gauntlet. The leader went on climbing steadily 
in a long slant, and at the next barrier of lights 
and guns held straight on and over without 
paying heed to the rush and whistle of shells, 
the glare and bump of their bursts. 

Mile after mile of shadowy landscape unrolled 
and reeled off below them. 

The Observer was leaning forward looking 
straight down over the nose of the machine, un- 
erringly picking up landmark after mark, signal- 
ling the course to the Pilot behind him. At 
last he stood erect and waved his arms to the 
Pilot, and instantly the roar of the engine sank 
and died. " Steady as you go," shouted the 
Observer, " nearly there. I can see the Diamond 
Wood." 

"Carry on," the Pilot shouted back, and set 
himself to nursing his machine down without 
the engine on as gentle a glide as would keep 
her on her course and lose as little height as 
possible. The Observer, peering down at the 



238 THE RAID-KILLERS 

marks below, gave the course with a series of 
arm signals, but presently he whipped round 
with a yell of joyful excitement. " Gottem! We 
fairly gottem this trip. Look — dead ahead." 
The Pilot swung the machine's nose a shade 
to the left and leaning out to the right looked 
forward and down. "The 'drome?" he shouted. 
" 'Drome," yelled the Observer, scrambled 
back to get his head close to the Pilot's and 
whooped again. "' Drome — and the whole 
bunch of 'em lined up ready to take off. See 
their lights? Wow! This isn't pie, what!" 
He was moving hastily to get to his place by 
his gun again when the Pilot reached out, 
grabbed his shoulder, and shouted, " Don't 
go'n spoil a good thing. We don't want to hog 
everything. Let's wait and get the crowd in 
on it." 

"Right," returned the Observer. "Keep the 
glide as long as you can." 

They slid noiselessly in to the enemy 'drome, 
circled over it, losing height steadily, looking 
down gloatingly on the twinkling row of lights 
below them, and peering out in a fever of im- 
patience for sign of the next machine of the 
flight. But in their anxiety to have a full hand 
to play against the enemy below they nearly 
overplayed. A search-light beam suddenly shot 
up from the ground near the 'drome. Another 
leaped from a point beyond it. "They're on to 
us," yelled the Observer. "Open her up and 
barge down on 'em quick." 

But the Pilot held his engine still. "It's 



THE RAID-KILLERS 239 

some of the others they're on," he shouted back, 
as light after light rose, and, after a moment's 
groping, slanted down towards the west where a 
sparkle of shell-bursts showed. "Now for it. 
Look out." 

The line of lights which marked the machines 
below had winked out at the first burst of the 
Archies, but the Night-Flier had marked the 
spot, her engine roared out, and she went swoop- 
ing down the last thousand feet straight at her 
mark. At first sound of her engine half a dozen 
lights swung hunting for them, spitting streams 
of fire began to sparkle from the defences' 
machine-guns. The Night-Flier paid no heed 
to any of them, dropped to a bare three hundred 
feet, flattened, and went roaring straight along 
the line of machines standing on the 'drome 
below. Crash-crash-crash! her bombs went 
dropping along the line as fast as hand could 
pull the lever. Right down the line from one 
end to the other she went, the bombs crash- 
crashing and the Observer's gun pouring a stream 
of fire into the machine below; a quick hard 
left-hand turn, and she was round and sailing 
down the line again, letting go the last of her 
bombs, and with the Observer feverishly pelt- 
ing bullets down along it. Clear of the long 
line, the Pilot was on the point of swinging again 
when a huge black shape roared past them, the 
wing-tips clearing theirs by no more than bare 
feet. Pilot and Observer craned out and looked 
down and back, and next moment they saw the 
glare and flash, heard the thump-thump of bombs 



240 THE RAID:KILLERS 

bursting on the ground. The Observer war 
stamping his feet and waving his arms and the 
Pilot yelling a wild "Good shot!" to every 
burst, when a rush and a crash and the blinding 
flame of a shell-burst close under their bows 
recalled them to business. The air by now 
was alive with tracer bullets, thin streaking lines 
of flame that hissed up round and past them. 
The Pilot opened his engine full out and set 
himself to climb his best. The tracers followed 
them industriously, and the Archie shells con- 
tinued to whoop and howl and bump round them 
as they climbed. The Pilot, craning out and 
looking over, was aware suddenly of the Observer 
at his ear again. "I gotta heap of rounds 
left," he was bawling. " Let's go down and give 
'em another dose." 

" Bombs are better," returned the Pilot. 
"Whistle up the pack. Shoot a light or drop a 
flare." 

Next moment a coloured light leaped from the 
Night-Flier, and in return a storm of tracers 
came streaming and pelting about her. Another 
light, and another storm of bullets, and a couple 
of search-lights swept round, groped a moment, 
and caught them. "Your gun!" screamed 
the Pilot. "I'm goin' for the light." The big 
machine swerved, ducked, and jerked out in a 
long side-slip. At first the light held her fast 
and the bullets came up in a regular tornado of 
whistling, spitting flame and smoke, most of 
them hissing venomously past, but many hitting 
with sharp smacks and cracks and in showers 



THE RAID-KILLERS 241 

of breaking sparks on wings and frame. But 
another wild swoop and dive and upward turn 
shook the light off for a moment, and then the 
Night-Flier put her nose down and drove straight 
at the point from which the sword of light 
stabbed up. As they steadied and held straight, 
the Observer swung his gun round, took steady 
aim, and opened fire. The light fumbled a 
moment, lit on them again, and poured its 
blinding glare full in their faces. The Pilot, his 
eyes closed to narrow slits, went straight at the 
glare, and the Observer, better equipped and 
prepared, jerked a pair of smoked glass goggles 
down off his forehead and reopened fire. The 
light vanished with a snap, and instantly the 
Pilot pulled the stick in and hoicked hard up. 
A thousand feet up, with the darkness criss- 
crossed by waving search-lights, the air alive 
with bullets, the ground flaming and spurting 
with Archie fire, he shut off engine a moment 
and yelled, "Good shot! Come on — try 
another." 

They tried another, the tracers flaming about 
them and ripping through their fabrics, the 
attacked light glaring savagely at them until 
they swept with a rush and a roar over and 
past it. Behind them more of the Flight were 
arriving, and a fresh series of bomb-bursts was 
spouting and splashing on the ground about the 
enemy machines and amongst the hangars round 
the 'drome. A hangar was hit fairly; a lick of 
flame ran along its roof, died a moment, rose 
again in a quivering banner of fire, and in 



242 THE RAID-KILLERS 

another moment was a roaring blaze. The 
whole 'drome was lit with the red glow, and into 
this and through the rolling smoke clouds that 
drifted from the fire machine after machine 
came swooping and circling. The fire made a 
beacon that marked the spot from miles around, 
and the Night-Fliers had nothing to do but steer 
straight for it to find their target. The Leader's 
machine, with ammunition almost expended, 
climbed high and circled round watching the 
performance, Pilot and Observer yelling de- 
lighted remarks at each other as they watched 
bomb after bomb smash fairly amongst the 
hangars or the scattered line of machines stand- 
ing on the 'drome. It was on these machines 
that most of the Night-Fliers concentrated. 
Huge black twin-engined "Gotha" machines, 
something over a dozen of them in a row, they 
made a plain and unmistakable target in the 
red light of the fire, and an irresistible invitation 
to any of the Night-Fliers that came swooping 
in. One after another they came booming out 
of the darkness into the circle of red light, swung 
ponderously and drove in along over the line, 
scattering bombs down its length, raking it 
from end to end with machine-gun fire. The 
whole place was a pandemonium of smoke, fire, 
and noise. The search-lights jerked and swept 
frantically to and fro, the air shook to the ex- 
plosion of the bombs, the splitting crash of the 
Archie guns and bang of their shell-bursts, the 
continuous clatter of machine-guns on the 
ground and in the air. Several times machines 



THE RAID-KILLERS 243 

were caught in the search-lights and swam for the 
moment bathed in staring light, while Archies 
and machine-guns pelted them with fire. Most 
of them stunted and dodged clear very quickly, 
or had to give in and escape to the outer dark- 
ness, circle and wait and take another chance 
to edge in clear of the blinding light and the 
uprushing streams of tracer bullets. One was 
turned back time after time by the defences 
and by another search-light which clung to him 
persistently, and would not be shaken off for 
more than a moment by all his dodging and 
twisting. Suddenly over by the light there 
sprang a volcano of flame and smoke — and the 
light was gone. Up above in the Leader's 
machine the two men were yelling laughter and 
applause, when they saw another machine swim 
into the glare of another light. She made no 
attempt to dodge or evade it, struck a bee-line 
for the row of Hun machines, droned straightly 
and steadily in and along the line, her bombs 
crashing amongst them, a sputter of flashes at 
her bows telling of the machine-gun hard at 
work putting the finishing touches to the destruc- 
tion. The light followed her and held her all 
the way, and through its beam the streaking 
smoke of the tracer bullets poured incessantly, 
the shell-bursts flamed and flung billowing clouds 
of black smoke, the rocket fires reached and 
clutched at her. Utterly ignoring them all, 
she held on to the end of the line, banked and 
swung sharply round, and began to retrace her 
path, still held in the glaring light, still pelted 



244 THE RAID-KILLERS 

with storming bullets and Archie shells. But 
halfway back she lurched suddenly and violently, 
recovered herself, swerved again, reeled, and, in 
one quick wild swooping plunge, was down, and 
crashed. A spurt of flame jumped from the 
wreckage, and in two seconds it was furiously 
ablaze. 

Up above Pilot and Observer shouted ques- 
tions at each other — "Who was it . . . What 
'bus . . . did you see . . . ? " And neither could 
answer the other. The search-lights rose and 
began to hunt, apparently, for them, and Archie 
shells to bump and blaze about them again. 
Out to the west search-lights and sparkling Archie 
bursts showed where the other machines were 
making for home. The Observer waved to his 
Pilot. "Only us left," he shouted, and the 
Pilot nodded, swung the machine round, and 
headed for the lines. 

Back at their 'drome they found the Squadron 
Commander beside them before they had well 
taxied to a standstill. "I was getting anxious," 
he said; "you were first away, but all the others 
are back — except three. And here some of them 
come," he added, as they caught the hum of an 
engine. "One . . . two," he counted quickly. 
"That will be all," said the Leader. "We saw 
one crash," and described briefly. 

The two climbed out of their machine and 
walked slowly over with the CO. to some of 
the other Fliers. None of them had seen the 
crash; all had dropped their bombs, loosed off 
all the rounds they could, and cleared out of the 



THE RAID KILLERS 245 

pelting fire as quickly as possible. All were 
agreed, most emphatically agreed, that the line 
of Gothas was a " complete write-off," and were 
jubilant over the night's work — until they heard 
of the lost machine. 

As the two machines dropped to ground and 
past the light switched on them a moment all 
there read their marks and named them. "Bad 
Girl of the Family" flounced lightly in, and 
"That leaves The Bantam's bus and old 
'Latchkey' to come," said the waiting men. 
"Here she is . . . Latchkey!" There was si- 
lence for a moment. 

"I might have known," said the Leader 
slowly — "might have known that was little 
Bantam's bus, by the way he barged in, regard- 
less. It was just like him. Poor little Bantam 
— and good old Happy! Two more of the best 
gone." 

The CO. knew The Bantam's mother and 
was thinking of her and the letter he would 
have to write presently. He roused himself with 
a j erk. ' ' Come along," he said ; ' ' you've another 
trip to-night, remember. See you make it help 
pay for those two." 

"They've gone a goodish way to pay their 
own score," said the Leader grimly. "And some 
others. Anyway, that lot will do no raid on 
London to-night." 

• • • • • 

The Squadron was drowsily swallowing hot 
cocoa, completing reports and lurching to bed, 
when the stout man clambered to his usual 



246 THE RAID-KILLERS 

corner seat in the First Smoker and gave his 
usual morning greeting to the others there 
bound for business. 

"Well," he said jovially, "no Gothas over 
after all." 

"Never even made a try, apparently," said 
the little man opposite. "Seems odd. Such a 
perfect night." 

"Very odd." . . . "Wonder why ..." "I 
made sure," said the compartment. "I don't 
understand. ..." 

They didn't understand. Neither did a-many 
thousands in London who had been equally 
certain of "Gothas over" on such a perfect 
night. Neither even did they understand in the 
homes of "poor little Bantam" and "good old 
Happy," whither telegrams were already wend- 
ing, addressed to the next-of-kin. 

But the Huns understood. And so did the 
Raid-Killers. 



When you pray and hear them say 

Baby prayers to-night, 
"Guardian angels keep us safe 

Till the morning light," 
Give a word and give a thought, 

If you've one to spare, 
To your guardian air men 

Flying "over there." 



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